


Malign Contingency

by Edcrab



Category: Half-Life
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Alternate Realities, Gen, Interdimensional warfare, Multiverse, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 83,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13667157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edcrab/pseuds/Edcrab
Summary: The Combine is not the only power that can travel through dimensions, just as the mysterious "G-Man" is not the only entity forcibly recruiting people to fight against the Combine... [Complete, originally published in 2005, rehosted based on a request]





	1. Chapter 1

/Subject(s): "Quarir Nalore" "Combine"

Find.

Located: 1 match.

Open.

**CLASSIFIED ARCHIVE**

Unauthorised access will result in complete termination of all privileges.

Extraction 99.3 percent complete.

Decryption 100 percent complete.

Final Archive: 99.9 percent accurate.

**Redeemer**

"What?" Quarir Nalore sat down heavily. It was all too much to take in.

_"Yes. I imagine this is difficult for you to understand."_

"I've told you about that mind reading thing!" Quarir snarled. "Give me a little privacy!"

_"No,"_  Maintonon said simply.

Quarir sighed and sank deeper into the over-padded chair. That was strange in and of itself, because if this was a mental reproduction of his apartment and not the real thing there was no reason for imperfections to—

_"Credibility,"_  the Supercomputer interrupted.  _"I have pride in my simulations."_

"I'm helping you out here," Quarir snapped at the invisible speaker. As real as the building seemed, the ceiling was missing. He stared up into impenetrable blackness. "You could be a bit less, well, a bit less you."

_"I am doing you a favour, Nalore. By all rights you should be dead now. Under Domarian law, I would have had you atomised. The process is quick but by no means painless. Now, you can repay your debt to society."_

"Makes me wonder if the atomiser would've been preferable." Quarir shuddered, and reached for the small glass of water on the coffee table. He drank it, wondering how he could possibly be consuming a liquid which didn't physically exist. "That always struck me as odd," he muttered. "Unfair, in fact. People like Voln avoided execution, and all I did was defraud the odd corporation."

_"Voln may have been a homicidal cyborg but he certainly had his uses. You may think yourself a petty thief but you are a frankly evil confidence trickster who has cost entirely legitimate enterprises_ _**billions** _ _. You have indirectly funded terrorists and had your competitors murdered. You have many talents, but have abused them."_

Quarir was inclined to agree. He'd made many bad career moves. Trying to con a Domarian Legion representative on Colony 351, for a start… those fascist bastards were always a danger to approach.

_"That is right,"_  Maintonon said solemnly.  _"Everyone knows that more enlightened cultures allow unrepentant squanderers of humanity to walk free and unpunished."_

"I thought you things couldn't be sarcastic?"

_"I am the_ _**Super** _ _computer, Nalore. Do not mistake me for some lesser intelligence."_

"Hah. If you're so super, I don't see why you can't do your own dirty work, not if these Combine things are such a threat to us—"

_"I am a nanotechnological core the size of a large city. I can hardly send myself plummeting into the planet, although it is an interesting proposition."_

"You know what I mean. Send one of your sucker agents to do this."

_"I have several agents working against the Combine. Or, more accurately,_ _**I** _ _am one of several agents working against the Combine. They threaten many civilisations, not only my Legion. I gladly work alongside other entities wishing to disrupt the Combine threat."_

"They're in another galaxy," Quarir spat, standing up and addressing the limitless void above him. "Not exactly a pressing threat."

_"So are the Arcadimaarians, yet they still plan to invade. They, too, play a part in my plan."_

"What, you plan on setting those two against each other?" Quarir nodded in genuine approval and admiration. "That'd be an interesting war to watch."

_"You are more perceptive than you appear."_

"Hah," Quarir preened himself. "I didn't get where I am today just on my looks, you know."

_"Yes. You got yourself into a position where an omnipresent mainframe is forcing you to accept an assignment. How clever of you."_

"All right," Nalore snarled. "You've briefed me and mocked me and done all sorts of shit to me. Now just tell me what you meant about 'others' then send me on my way."

_"I am not the only force intervening to alter this planet's destiny. There will be others there, operatives influenced by powers that are not dissimilar to myself. You are not to disrupt their missions."_

Quarir snorted. "How am I to know who else is being bossed around by a pompous lump of circuits?"

_"Because they are the best at what they do. Warriors, diplomats, and even shysters like yourself."_

"Hah," Quarir adjusted his tie, pointedly refusing to rise to the bait. "Why don't you just send a couple of Behemoths? Those Striders the Combine use wouldn't last a second. Synth tech builds quick but it's, what do people say, not at the same tier."

_"For some reason, I do not think sixty-foot war machines would avoid detection. Expediency is key, but this mission_ _**MUST** _ _remain covert."_

The room shook in added emphasis. "All right, all right," Quarir rolled his eyes and waved his hands conciliatorily. "If this job is so important you should just—"

* * *

There was a crackle of blinding, multicoloured light and Quarir found himself sprawled across a dusty floor. His clothes were filthy, but they weren't his clothes: he was wearing some sort of nondescript workers' uniform. He felt like a Maintenance Association technician, one of questionable cleanliness and, for that matter, sanity.

"Vrrrurrk," gurgled some unspeakable abomination.

As the gore-spattered clawed  _thing_  lurched towards him, Quarir enterprisingly reached for his holster. But he didn't have one anymore. Maintonon hadn't seen fit to arm him.

He didn't have a Warden plasma rifle or a Sentinel sidearm, let alone the XDC 25k "Obliterator" Fusion Cannon he'd been half expecting. He didn't even have a damn knife, and right now he'd have settled for the most pathetic looking toothpick.

The creature lunged at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Failed Rendezvous**

If someone had been told that a con artist would face the host of a Xenian parasite, they may well have expected him to meet an end that was both grisly and deserved. But Quarir was an adaptive soul; his life experiences had been intensely varied, and very few men who had taken his choice of lifestyle had got quite so good at surviving.

The "zombie"— if he recalled his briefing correctly— took an appreciably deep slice out of the concrete floor, but missed his rolling form. As the creature reared back to strike again Quarir leapt to his feet and landed a powerful blow to the "headcrab" sitting smugly atop the body.

Quarir was no ordinary human. The punch would have broken bone. But, despite a satisfyingly organic squelching sound, the zombie barely flinched. Okay. Noted. Hardly the smartest of creatures, but the things were certainly hardy…

Just as he was wondering whether he should prise the 'crab from the shoulders or merely run like hell, a gunshot rang out, and he was doused in warm, sticky goop.

"Are you all right?" asked a voice that sounded equal parts irritated and concerned.

"Nothing a little ion scan wouldn't clean up," he replied brightly, and instantly wished he hadn't spoken out of turn. They definitely wouldn't have even that simple device on this backwater planet.

"Wait," he said suspiciously. "I see what's happening here. Bit convenient, you turning up. You're one of ol' 'Ton's plants, right?"

The woman blinked incredulously. "Excuse me?"

"C'mon, don't play that game with me," he rolled his eyes in the way that even hyper intelligent constructs found annoying. "Chick with a revolver just happens to be around to save my life? Give me a break."

"Are you really sure you're—?"

"Oh, drop it already. I see he gave  _you_  a weapon. Or did you just mug a native or something?"

_"What the hell are you talking about?"_  the Resistance member shouted.

Quarir was taken aback. "You're… you're not one of Maintonon's agents?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're mumbling about."

"Really sure you're not the one I'm meant to meet?"

"I think I already explained that I've got no idea what you're saying."

"Uh, neither do I," Quarir said lamely, making an attempt to wipe some of the yellow entrails off his jacket. "Being coated with the guts of a Xenian critter always screws up my thinking processes."

"I'm sure," the woman sniffed. Satisfied that the crazed fool wasn't going to attack her or anything, she holstered the .357.

"Well, I'll, uh, be on my way," Quarir moved towards the doorway of the crumbling residence.

"What? No thank you? I just saved your life!"

"Hey, I'm quite capable of saving my own life. I'm a bion."

"A what?"

"A bion. You know, another word for cyborg? As in—" Quarir suddenly realised what he'd said. "Oh, crap. I mean… that is… can you just forget I said that?"

"Are you a Combine spy or something?" the woman's hand slowly reached back towards her firearm.

"Ah, to hell with this," Quarir muttered, and with that he leapt forward.

To his intense surprise, she was quick enough to draw and fire, and he staggered from the impact of the projectile. For a moment neither moved, and the smell of fresh blood and gunpowder began to overpower even the rotting stench of the downed zombie.

"Oh god, I…" the citizen paused. "You're still alive?"

"Barely," Quarir winced. "A bit further up and you'd have hit something a bit fleshier."

"What  _are_  you?"

"I could ask you the same question! I thought you unaugmented, non-serumite cavemen were meant to suck at fighting?"

"Why are you talking like that?"

"Because I'm a visitor from another galaxy, and probably another dimension," Quarir said with forced sarcasm, as the statement was entirely accurate.

"That's helpful," she muttered. "I'm Nuri. Are you one of the new immigrants from City 13?"

"Actually I'm Harry Varrel, a runaway from City 11," Nalore continued smoothly, "I'm sorry, I thought you were some sort of Combine agent yourself."

"Of course," Nuri said sweetly, "but I hope you realise that spur-of-the-moment bullshit isn't convincing anyone. Seeing as I just shot you in the heart."

"Oh," Quarir said, trying and failing to hide his humiliation. "Fair enough. But not  _in_  the heart, not exactly. Most of my internal organs are encased in neat little boxes and my bones are reinforced, so I'm pretty sure your bullet bounced off a rib or something. No wonder the Combine are trouncing you if that's all you got to fight them off."

"While I'd love to stand here and be pelted with your drivel, we need to move out before the scanners find us. Not that I'd feel particularly guilty if they carted you off to the Citadel."

"Not sure what a scanner is but the Citadel, pfft. There's not much they could do to me, I feel like I'm already half Stalker."

"Stalker?"

"Oh, yeah, that's something  _we_  know about but most of you don't. I'd forgotten."

"Urgh, just follow me! I don't know what you are but—"

Quarir had decided that culture shock would hardly be an issue, since this was a society that had been  _already_  been overrun by alien invaders. "Listen to me. C'mon, is it that hard to imagine another world? You people are working alongside three armed things that can shoot lightning for god's sake!"

"That's a scanner," Nuri said resignedly.

"Now what are  _you_  babbling about?"

"That's a scanner," she repeated, "the floating thing flying over the three CPs that are about to arrest us, you  _bastard_."

* * *

"I've told you," Quarir said calmly, "I'm one of you."

As a faceless pawn of an oppressive regime, the Civil Protection official managed to look suitably unimpressed. "We have no record of anyone matching your description," the Metrocop barked, each world engulfed in static.

Quarir matched the unblinking stare of the four CPs. Well, for all he knew they were blinking like crazy, but since all of the freaks had gas masks they weren't easy to read. None of them looked like the blinking sort, however— the Combine enforcers clearly favoured an awful cop/psychotic cop routine over the more traditional good/bad approach. They were almost as bad as the Legion's Security force.

"Run the scan on me again," Quarir instructed, as if dealing with a child, "and tell me that humanity managed that alone."

The officer didn't scan the prisoner for a second time, although he did check the original readout more thoroughly. "Hmm," the cop rumbled, "your internal mechanisms do not match recommended Union augmentation. They are not as developed."

_Yeah, because I like to think for myself,_  Quarir thought privately. "I'm a basic prototype," Quarir said aloud, in his practiced indulging-an-idiot tone. "I may lack the structural strength but I'm far more suitable for infiltrating the enemy ranks."

One of the lower-ranking CPs snorted, an electric crackle that grated across the nerves. "The 'Resistance' isn't worth spying on."

"I'm referring to events on a galactic level," Quarir snapped. "Intervention on this world by third parties." He was searching frantically for an appropriate civilisation, but his questing mind drew a blank. Screw it, what would they know about the wider galaxy? He was going to have to chance it…

"Remember the Klichuk uprising shortly after we absorbed Synth Variant 3? Or all those problems with… uh… the Hokum-pokums on Derdidi V? Imagine that all over again. It would make the fall of Nihil…"  _Dammit, what was the word…_  "…ich look like an accountancy problem."

The CPs exchanged glances. Quarir relaxed slightly. Inhuman as they were, they weren't infallible and from the subtle shifts in their body language it was obvious this his bold announcement had unsettled them. They were aware of the Combine's overall position and their dedication to the human race's "betterment", but they'd be uninstructed in the fine detail— namely just how big the Universal Union they half-worshipped truly was, and just how rebellious other member planets really were.

The four converged on the same corner of his cell in a simultaneous group discussion. They were uneasy, certainly, but whether that'd mean they'd refer him to a superior or merely dispose of him on the spot he wasn't sure. He was going to have to play his trump card.

"Take a look at The One Man they're all talking about," Quarir urged them, "it's obvious he's not just a figure they've made up or merely a competent Resistance member. He's an alien plant."

"You mean The Free Man?" a cop— possibly the same as before— boomed, whirling on the restrained "citizen".

"That's what I said," Quarir sniffed. "He was, in fact, my target."

"Your… target?" the officer sounded intrigued, in a vocally-amplified way.

"Yes. Surely you're aware just how many of us are trying to track him down, see if he poses a genuine threat? I'll admit that I'm not happy with this situation," Quarir said sadly, but cheered up immediately, "although I suppose I'll have a convincing story to relay to my so-called colleagues. I hadn't got very far into infiltrating their little cell as it was."

"You were going to let a Resistance cell  _survive_?"

"Of course. We need  _something_  to lure The One Free Man out of hiding— something for him to aid, to rally to… and," Quarir ended darkly, "die for."

The CP leader had made up their mind. "You, stay here. I am going to link with the Overwatch."

One Metrocop saluted and stiffly stood to attention beside the item of furniture Nalore could only think of as a dentist's chair, while the other three filed out.  _Could've been worse_ , Quarir decided,  _not as good as them letting me go, but a damn sight better than being tortured or killed_.  _I thought the whole 'die for' thing was a bit hammy but hey, I made it work._  
  
Quarir briefly examined the lone guard. They had some useless combustion pistol, not a pulse rifle or anything posing the remotest threat. Even if the CP got a few rounds off at him, any of his plated components would shrug off the impact. Admittedly, he wasn't  _entirely_  augmented, and there were plenty of locations that could do without a slug of hot lead. Not to mention there could be any number of Combine in the corridor beyond, ready to render assistance.

He flexed his arms experimentally, and felt the metal braces clamped across his wrists loosen. That was reassuring. Plain old steel, not one of the super-alloys that the Combine used with depressing frequently these days.

Right, his options: wait for the CPs to return, try to talk his way out, or go on a violent rampage.

Well, he doubted he'd be able to pluck on the heartstrings of a brainwashed meat puppet, and the oh so reliable rampage might encounter problems, so, depressingly, it seemed like playing the waiting game was his only viable option.

Quarir Nalore had heaps of patience, because his calling demanded it. It didn't mean he particularly enjoyed the prospect of sitting on his ass for hours—

—although, he decided, as the ground shook and plaster rained onto his unprotected head, it would be a marked improvement over being hit in the face by a mortar.


	3. Chapter 3

**Scheduled Chaos**

_It'd be typical,_  Quarir thought bitterly,  _to die like this after all I've been through_.

While a man who'd set his priorities straight might have concentrated on finding a way out of this mess, Nalore stubbornly stuck to mentally bemoaning his life choices, oblivious to the CP who was bellowing for aid and fleeing from his position. For a brief time period Quarir had been very rich and interacted with a variety of interesting people, mostly women, but he'd also spent a year on the run from the authorities and had, eventually, been waylaid by a remarkably angry Security mech that had thrown the book at him; after, of course, throwing him through a wall.

As if prompted by the recollection, part of the wall collapsed. Quarir examined it, idling wondering what would have happened to him if the mortar's angle had been slightly different. The question was answered when a second volley of artillery dislodged most of the roof, which duly flattened him.

Deciding that waiting would be the worst life choice he'd made thus far, Nalore broke free from the squashed remains of the chair and tried to concentrate on the fact that he was alive rather than the likely probability that, as well as being quite horribly bruised, several of his bones were broken.

Right after he'd bragged about them being reinforced too. Was that ironic, or was that just annoying?

Quarir managed to shove his own personal concrete headstone aside in time to see a handful of Civil Protectors sprint past the doorway. Treating every step like a titanic feat, he edged his way outside the interrogation chamber. The spasmodic sensation in his leg was unbearable. "You'd have thought those lousy biotechnicians would've given me a few pain dampeners," he muttered aloud, rubbing the offending limb and trying to ascertain whether what he was feeling was muscular strain or an actual break. That was the problem with being a bion. Just because you  _could_  walk despite having a house sit on you didn't necessarily mean it was something you should do. Medicine was one of the few fields he had little knowledge in, but Nalore was fairly sure that walking on a broken leg wasn't a sensible decision.

There was another explosion, followed by an earth-shattering rumble that sent dust motes flying. He coughed and sputtered: force of habit, he was equipped with lung filters. His eyes, however, were wholly organic and thus he stumbled blindly through the cloud of choking powder and into a door, which splintered slightly as it met his skull.

Staggering backwards, holding his throbbing head and wistfully thinking of his cosy penthouse atop the exclusive district of the Ucelsian Heights, Quarir became aware that someone was shouting at him over the ringing in his ears.

"Hey! Let me out of here! You haven't even charged me yet!"

More from curiosity than from any philanthropic urge, Quarir tried the handle, finding that, as he expected, the cell was locked. He still cursed, however, as the Combine bastards had fitted it with a magseal. Combine loved these things: an exterior magnetic lock which they tended to fit on existing doors, as the technology was easily mass-produced and infinitely superior to even the most advanced mortise lock.

But the door itself was just as fragile as its original locking mechanism, and so it split neatly in half as both of Quarir's fists hit its centre.

Nuri had wisely backed away from the entrance, and so the splintering wood lacerated Nalore's hands and little else. She raised an eyebrow.

"You?!"

"No, I'm a clone. Hello."

Nuri snorted and pushed past him, giving him time enough to notice the ugly black eye she was sporting. "We have to get out of here," she shouted over her shoulder, neatly sidestepping a Metrocop who had been buried under falling masonry.

"You don't say," Nalore ran to keep up with her. For an unaugmented primitive, she was pretty fast on her feet.

"I just thought I'd mention, as last time I tried to be urgent you ignored me and got us arrested."

"Yeah, but I got us out too, so it equals out."

"Hmmph."

Quarir matched her pace. Nuri seemed to know her way around the building.

She skidded to a halt outside a door marked "Armoury", and managed to force it open with a few well-aimed kicks. Nalore shook his head disdainfully— to think the Combine had gained a reputation for being security-conscious, and yet had matchstick doors peppering their territories.

"Oh, thank god," Nuri said, sighing in relief. She grabbed her shiny revolver from a strange-looking Combine shelving unit and held onto it protectively. "I was afraid they might have put it in the confiscation lockers—"

Another explosion, another tremor as something collapsed, more distant screaming.

"—which, I think, have just been blown up." She grabbed a weapon from the same sconce and tossed it towards Quarir, who managed to catch it through sheer luck. "Come on."

Nuri practically leapt away from the storeroom and Quarir struggled to keep up, although in his defence he was trying to figure out what the hell kind of gun she'd given him. It looked like a repeater, which probably meant it was an SMG, or whatever they called those small bullet-sprayers.

Nuri abruptly stopped, and, for a brief moment, she appeared panic stricken as she realised the stairwell was blocked with smoking rubble. Then both her expression and resolve hardened, and she threw herself out the nearest window.

Uncharacteristically, Nalore hesitated, but he quickly did likewise when another thunderous detonation rang out, worryingly close to home.

Quarir landed heavily in the muddy ground, relieved to see Nuri in once piece but even more relieved to find they'd been on the first floor. She nodded, and ran round the back of the building.

Nuri gasped. Quarir caught up with her and did likewise. The other end of the former police station was a fiery ruin, although that wasn't what held their attention.

A dozen strange, crablike creatures were lumbering through the ruins of the small town, launching horribly angular shells from their back-mounted cannons and smashing their way through walls. The huge Synths came in two varieties— some smaller, seemingly designed for use against infantry, with their bigger cousins geared towards larger-scale destruction. Between them, they were reducing the once prosperous community to scorched earth.

"They've started," Nuri said flatly, as if she'd come to terms with the tragedy long before it had happened.

"But aren't they Combine creations?" Nalore asked her in increasing confusion. "Why would they flatten a Metrocop station?"

"Obviously they didn't bother telling the CPs when they'd start the demolition." She rubbed her swollen eye and spat in the general direction of the former Protectorate. "I hope they all died in there."

Quarir just nodded, watching the Synths at work. Although they weren't actively targeting the civilians, they weren't above taking pot-shots at those who came too close, whether by accident or to offer futile opposition. The Combine clearly held efficiency over life, as their refusal to instruct the evacuation of the settlement showed.

"They knew the Resistance cell here was too active for them to retake the city," she sobbed. "So they destroyed it. Without any forewarning! I didn't believe they'd do it, not even them."

"Well, they haven't thought this through," Quarir offered in an attempt to comfort her, "the existing rebels will just fight back harder. Watching their homes blow up won't make them sit down and cry."

"Exactly," Nuri said in firm agreement, hurriedly wiping her eyes. "We won't apply for resettlement; we'll keep up the fight! We'll—"

"Run?" Quarir suggested, noting the approach of the Synth horde and the appearance of some sort of cacophonous flying vehicles.

"That might be an idea, yes, but afterwards we'll dispense justice…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Odysseys and Stompy Robots**

"I don't see why you keep looking at them," Nuri snapped.

"I just didn't think the Combine would use rotary transports," Quarir explained, sheepishly turning away from the patrolling craft.

"Normal people call them heli-cop-ters," she said sarcastically, "and the Combine use them because  _we_  did. They absorb other cultures."

"Yeah, I know, but I'd have thought they'd use Synths or Murocrachian organisms. Why not convert a Murochrachian Lightspore into some sort of assault vehicle?"

"They do use Gunships closer to the Citadel, and they're Synth," Nuri said absently, centring her attentions on the suspiciously blank horizon. She paused, and turned back to Nalore. "What the hell is a Muddyratchet?"

"Murochr—," Quarir began, and then thought better of it. "Never mind."

"You keep doing that! You're bullet-proof—"

"In some places," he corrected.

"—in some places, yes, but nevertheless bullet-proof, and you've got knowledge of things I've never heard of. Who and what are you?"

"I've told you," he said tiredly, "I'm a bion. I'm a human, like you," he added, as if not believing it himself, "but with genetic modifications and the odd artificial part." He remembered his pulled tendons and the hole in his chest, and winced. "Not that it does me much good…"

"That doesn't really answer my question."

"Yeah? Well I'm from another world, and, I think, another dimension," he declared dramatically.

"Oh, like Xen?"

"Like Xen, yes," he said testily, not pleased at having the wind taken from his sails, "just without the screwed up gravity and floating rocks. Basically, I'm a representative of a number of planets that want to disrupt Combine activity."

"Oh, okay."

"You what?"

"I can believe  _that_. You have to remember, we've been enslaved by alien invaders and, like you said, we work alongside three-armed things, I mean um,  _people_  that shoot lightning. It broadens your horizons."

"Right, right. Sure." Acutely disappointed that she hadn't wanted to hear more, Quarir changed the subject. "Speaking of horizons," he nodded towards the distant and conspicuously bare plane, "I thought you said there'd be a relocation outpost over there or something?"

"There used to be," Nuri said warily, "it was just a big camp with a lot of CP APCs inside. Obviously it was temporary."

Nalore sniffed. "What City was this?"

"Eleven. That's why I knew you'd lied about your own relocation. That and the fact I'd shot you a minute earlier. How is it, by the way?"

"What, the hole? It hurts, but I think my nanodrones have stopped the bleeding. I'll have to pluck it out when I get the chance."

"Oh god…" she breathed.

"I was wondering about that," Nalore mused, following her over the crest of the hill, "do you people use that exclusively as a swear word or do you have religion like— oh, shit."

The pass, bordered on all sides by impassable walls of rock, was a writhing sea of bodies. Thousands of citizens were attempting to move through it from either end; some fleeing the destruction of their homes, others the terror that awaited them beyond the canyon. A solid wall of wheeled vehicles blocked the mouth of the pass, and, seemingly acting at random, CPs were alternating between gunning the defenceless civilians down and bundling them into the personnel carriers.

"They must have been ordered to pick up the pace a little," Quarir grimaced.

"What are we going to do? We can't walk through the pass, the 'cops will recognise me as a Resistance fighter… and if we move  _over_  these hills, the choppers will mow us down."

"Well, at least they don't know who I am," Nalore shrugged.

"Oh, shut up," Nuri turned on him. "What kind of 'representative' are you, anyway? Where are your huge battleships and soldiers or even a damn ray gun? Why'd they just send  _you_?"

Quarir backed away, mouthing nothingness. It was a thought that he'd had himself…

"Because, you useless little ape," someone sneered, "the Traitor Mainframe wishes to remain covert."

Nalore swivelled around, right in time for a fist to meet his midriff. There was a horrible cracking noise and he sunk to the floor. As his consciousness ebbed from him in a torrent of pain, he recalled that Maintonon had said he wouldn't be the only operative acting on this world...

"And in doing so he guarantees his failure.  _Pathetic_. Utterly pathetic."

Nuri backed away. The newcomer was a little over six foot tall, white haired, and clad in clothing she could only describe as a robe. He didn't look too dangerous; but if Quarir really  _was_  an elite warrior selected by their would-be alien saviours, and this man had dispatched him so effortlessly…

 _It means I'm in big trouble_ , she decided, as the grinning humanoid darted forward and effortlessly lifted her off her feet. He walked to the edge and held her, at arms length, over the perilous drop of the precipice.

"Combine, Domarians, Terrans… you will all fall. It's a pity," the man leered, "you're not  _entirely_  defunct as a species..."

 _If he's anything like Quarir bullets will just bounce off him_ , Nuri thought, frantically planning ahead even as she recoiled at his touch, even as the humming rotors of the Hunter-Seekers drew nearer, even as Quarir lay dead or dying…  _I'll have to make do…_

She withdrew her revolver and fired into the air, and her captor struck the pistol from her hand.

"Now, really," he tutted, "what was that meant to do? I—"

Responding to the shots of insidious, rebellious forces, the three helicopters deluged the rocky crevices of the peak with rocket fire.

* * *

"Hmm. I found you first. I was kind of hoping I'd find my .357."

Quarir groaned. "I feel like I've been buried under a heap of rocks."

"You  _have_  been buried under a heap of rocks."

"Ah. That's the second time. Third if you count the ornamental boulder back in the Arts Facility, but that was a long time ago and the guide felt so bad for me she gave me her comm number so, well, all in all that was a much better day than this."

Nuri offered her hand, and Nalore graciously let her help him up. "Thanks," he said, after a great deal of hesitation. "What actually happened?"

She told him, and his eyes bulged. "He dropped you off a cliff and you  _survived_?"

"I have hands you know. And I can climb. It wasn't a particularly steep cliff, and he was too busy being hit in the face by a rocket to come after me."

"Ah," Quarir nodded, ineffectually dusting himself off. "That explains all the scorch marks and smoke. Where are the rotorcrafts now?"

" _Helicopters_. They flew off for some reason after levelling half the hillside. I think they're needed elsewhere. Probably picking off stragglers."

"Good for us, eh?"

"Well, yes and no. The crowd's moved on. I saw a contingent of CPs leave the blockade and start making their way up here. I doubt they'll take too long to find us. So, I don't suppose you've seen my revolver?" she asked hopefully.

"No, and I lost my own gun. Just tell me, what was this robed guy like?"

Nuri shuddered. "Bit taller than you, whitish hair, red and gold robe over some sort of armour..."

Quarir sighed. "Sounds tasteless enough to be an Arcadimaarian. I hope those rockets really finished him off, but I doubt it. Their Zealots are damn hard to kill."

"A… Zealot?" Nuri paused in combing the rocky ground.

"A glorified hitman. Assassins that are given a target and never stop until one of them dies, no matter what they're ordered to do."

"What are the Arcadimaarians?"

"Murderous assholes who are big on psionics and genetic tampering. They're basically wannabe-Uclasions who want to destroy all inferior lifeforms, which in their eyes is  _everyone_   _else_ , or enslave them."

"Like the Combine," Nuri muttered, making her way down the steep trail. "What are Uclasions?"

"The Uclasions are a  _really_  ancient species that wiped themselves out but left a few massively technological relics around, like Ucelsia, a big boxy artificial planet. A lot of Domarians live there." Quarir frowned. "Still, I don't think the Arcs are that much like the Combine. The Combine just wants assimilation and supremacy. The Arcadimaarians revel in destruction. They're a bunch of hedonistic bastards. Sadistic, even."

"I think you lost me at 'really'."

"It doesn't matter," Quarir murmured, nearly tripping over a large stone, "both powers are planning on invading us, but you could argue the Combine are a bigger threat. Actually, you could argue that the Arc's are a bigger threat… I guess it depends."

"How the hell does it depend?"

Nalore shrugged, which was a mistake as he came very close to falling over. Very few parts of his body were behaving as they should. "The Combine are more likely to invade, but they're likely to try and absorb us all. The Arcs are a little less likely to, but they'll probably just kill us, because they hate Maintonon— that's the Domarian's leader, this computer thing, except not really because a lot of people think he's just an advisor— and anyway Arcs prefer relying on their own tech, although they're not above using whatever Uclasion artefacts they can find. We could maybe beat them one on one, I mean,  _we've_  got big stompy robots, but they outnumber us and—"

"You've  _really_  lost me," Nuri interjected.

"You've lost  _me_. Slow down, it's not a race."

"Shh," Nuri ordered in a harsh undertone, raising a hand for silence.

Quarir, annoyed, listened intently, and eventually picked up what the sharper woman's ears had already detected: the synthesised voices and heavy footfalls of a gaggle of Civil Protection troops.

Nuri pointed, and, sure enough, six of the masked enforcers were making their way up the hill, slowly defeating the steep landscape. "We can still go around them," she whispered eagerly. "Look what's at the foot of the hill."

Quarir checked out a large, shiny, black-plated ground car. "An armoured vehicle?"

"Exactly. A Combine APC. Do you think you could drive it?"

"Me? No way, the Combine I've seen in action doesn't go near wheeled vehicles. Then again they've got a friggin' huge empire…"

"I'll just do it then," Nuri stated icily. She half ran, half slid down the remainder of the stony path, taking great care to keep as low as she could. Quarir, again, had great difficulty keeping up- he kept telling himself it was because he was so injured, not because some non-serumite was fitter than he was.

Nuri, surfing the gravel like water, came to a halt behind a conveniently placed boulder. Checking that the CPs couldn't see her, and giving Quarir time to catch up, she moved from mound to mound, utilising the cover with tried expertise. Nalore grudgingly admitted to himself that she was  _really_  good at what she did.

She reached the APC and pounded on an area that was presumably the door. "Locked," she shrugged, "but at least they didn't leave a guard."

"Amateurs," Quarir mumbled. "You want to pick the lock, or should I, y'know...?"

"Oh, no, go ahead and do your freakishly strong door-breaking routine."

Nalore chuckled, and managed to lever the hatch open, but not without considerable effort.

Nuri sat herself at the controls. "Simpler than I expected," she announced, and Quarir was inclined to agree. The black plastic, or at least something he thought looked like plastic, was positively covered with all manner of button and switch but it was blatantly obvious, even to him, what each did.

Nuri pressed a button marked with some sort of half-circle, and the small glass dome topping the vehicle noisily popped open. "You can manage a gun, can't you?"

"Probably. I mean yes. I mean, all guns are the same, right?"

"Then get up there. They've seen us!"

Nuri placed a hand on the steering wheel and did something to some foot pedals. The APC shuddered into life. Quarir wedged himself into the constrictive turret cockpit and managed to slam the transparent shield down just as bullets began ricocheting off the surrounding metal.

Shouting at the escapees, each other, and at their radios, the CPs desperately tried to make their way back to the ground... but they were far too late. The APC roared away at a speed that even the hovercar-owning Nalore could appreciate, despite their bumpy transition.

"Can't close this damn door!" Nuri shouted, muffled considerably by the combination of engine and thick armour. "Won't be good for my protection!"

"Well, I couldn't help it!" Quarir bellowed back. "At least they don't lock their controls!"

"Maybe didn't see the point of doing both," she replied. "Uh-oh. I think they're coming our way! Get that gun working!"

Quarir risked a backwards glance. Three APCs had detached themselves from the barricade and were speeding towards them, gaining ground at a disturbing rate. Swearing loudly, he grappled with the control mechanism of the machine gun mounted nearby, and he saw the pulse weapon swivel towards their pursuers. He pressed what seemed to be the trigger.

A rocket, trailing flame and smoke, screeched from a firing port and slammed into a hill, creating a burst of blinding mud that forced one of the APCs to veer aside.

His heart in his throat, Quarir tried the other trigger, and the pulse weapon spat radiant blue light towards the enemy, in a manner that was reassuringly reminiscent of the photon armaments back home. It pattered harmlessly off the automobile's hull but he felt immensely cheered.

He concentrated his efforts on the domes of his fellow gunners, and a burst of pulse fire shattered the closest APC's bubble, shredding the occupant in a puff of red mist. The driver slowed down to let his intact colleagues overtake him.

Nalore had no time to celebrate, however, as the two remaining carriers let loose a barrage of screaming rockets; following their every move with unerring accuracy, they left a wispy trail that, in the sunlight, would've looked quite nice in happier circumstances.

"I'm going to have take evasive action! Spray rockets everywhere, they'll have plenty!"

Quarir didn't need telling twice. As Nuri swung their vehicle aside wildly, he sent a steady stream of explosive projectiles towards the enemy, keeping the luminous crosshair of his reactive dome as near to them as possible.

For an eternity, the three APCs poured their full firepower towards each other, but eventually Nalore's famous luck played out. One of their attackers overcompensated after swerving around a crater, and they entered an irreversible skid that left their side exposed for two full seconds. He took full advantage of the moment.

Two rockets slammed into the sliding carrier, and it flipped upward, landing as a smoking wreck. Whooping in unashamed joy, Nalore focused on the last one, which had unwisely slowed so as to best avoid the new obstacle. A rocket hit it dead on, and it stuttered to a halt.

In impotent rage, the crippled APC's gunner fired upon them one last time. Even over the engine noise and the aftermath of battle, Quarir heard Nuri's pained grunt as the shots hit home. Their APC began to veer off the road.

"Nuri? Are you okay? Nuri! We're about to go over the cliff!"

She wasn't okay, and they went over the cliff.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hitting the Railroad**

Quarir's first thought:  _I'm alive._

His second thought:  _But I wish I wasn't._

And, his third, surprisingly enough:  _Where's Nuri? Hope she's in one piece…_

He arduously pulled himself from out of the turret. Its metal walls had been contorted by the impact, and, sandwiched between the lacerating edges, he felt like the damn thing had tried to bite him in half.

His side was damp with blood and hurt abominably and that, he reasoned, when added to the injuries from all his previous escapades, now meant that he hurt all over.

Quarir dropped down from the smoke-enshrouded APC. Coughing his habitual cough, he waved the fumes away and examined the object that had broken their fall. At first he was at a loss to explain why a colossal steel column would be jutting out from the sea, but when the whole structure shook he made the connection.

Trains. Finally, there was something common to all three civilisations. Funny, that.

As the locomotive thundered overhead, he kept an eye out for both a way to safety and Nuri. But whether he'd find her or a gruesome corpse, well, that was the real question…

"Hello."

"Wah!"

In complete defiance of his vascular regulation systems, his heart managed to skip a beat. Nuri was sitting on the cockpit's crumpled seat, a white case in one hand, fixing him with a quizzical gaze.

"I half thought you'd dropped in there," Nuri casually indicated the choppy waters far beneath them. Nalore shuddered.

"I'm… fine, more or less. How are you?"

"Bullet hit me and I lost control, that's all," she said defensively, pointing to a red circle on her upper arm. She continued to hold the odd-looking white device to the offending limb.

"What is that thing?" Quarir asked, curiosity overtaking his atypical concern.

"Medkit. I don't pretend to understand how they work, but they do their job. I found this one under the driver's seat."

Nalore nodded, slowly. It did look like some sort of medical equipment. The red cross on the casing was a hint. The plastic was bordering glass cylinders full of some green fluid— presumably a symbiotic bacterium like the Legion's myre strains, although maybe they had reparation nanodrones themselves and they weren't as backwards as he'd thought…

She proffered the half empty unit. "Can you bions use these?"

"I don't think so," he admitted cautiously.

"Well, you can't get any worse. Try some."

Shrugging, he accepted the device, located the lone port on its back and held it to the wound between his ribs. "Nothing's happening," he narrated.

"It's not automatic," Nuri sighed. "Press the big green button."

A touch embarrassed, Quarir did so, and he was treated to the frankly bizarre sensation of having pressurised liquid injected inside him. The pain eased instantly. Hell if he didn't know better, he'd have said that this stuff was  _exactly_  the same as myre.

"Bet you feel better. Come on, there's a ladder on the other side of this walkway."

Quarir did feel better. But he also felt like he'd spent half of his life being told where to go by this one chick. Of course, if she really knew where she was going, that wasn't a big problem.

Quarir followed Nuri to the other end of the support pillar and clambered up the ladder after her, spying the hole in the ceiling that she was headed to.

"Hey, where'd you get that backpack?" He called, suddenly noticing the rucksack slung over her shoulder.

"Inside the APC. They had a little ammunition and a few SMGs. I thought we could use it."

"Resourceful," Nalore said in what was  _almost_  a congratulatory tone. He pulled himself through the opening and stood next to Nuri. "You sure you don't want me to carry some?"

"Go right ahead," came the response. Quarir strapped himself into the carrier, muttering that he'd expected her to say no.

Another train passed and the resultant vibrations shook the whole bridge for a second time. SMG at the ready, Nuri sprinted towards the epicentre with Nalore in tow.

They emerged out of the rusty passageway and onto a concrete expanse that vanished into a far-off tunnel. Train tracks and road markings ran its whole length and imposing watchtowers were set into the bridge at strategic intervals.

"They've got force fields," Quarir told her sagely, spying the wavering wall of cerulean light that linked two of the outposts. "We'll have to find some way of disabling them."

"Alternatively we could just board that train and it'll let us pass."

"Or we could do that, yeah."

Nuri stealthily approached the idling locomotive. It was a tall, thin, sinister-looking contraption that put Quarir in mind of some bladed instrument. He followed behind the resistance member guardedly, aware at all times of the sentries standing atop the watchtowers, on flimsy-seeming structures that looked like surfboards wired to masts.

The train was designed efficiently: it wasn't dissimilar to its Legion equivalent, and Quarir grimaced at the likeness. The engine and carriages were windowless blocks of metal, but the freight units beyond were simply skeletal arrangements of girders, with all manner of securing device designed to hold every sort of container.

Nuri pulled herself onboard and helped Quarir up. He would've commented on how ironic it was that the freight train seemed to be transporting APCs, but Nuri held her hand up in the "silence" signal he'd long grown sick of.

Four Combine soldiers, their uniforms subtly different and more armoured, were inspecting the other side of the train. One by one they were opening the APCs and checking their contents.

"A search party? Hope it's not for us," Quarir whispered, noting the angular but functional pulse rifles they all carried. He could just do with a more advanced weapon…

"Probably just routine," Nuri replied quietly. "Now either we wait here and hope they've already inspected this side, or we—"

Quarir pulled her away, as guards approached from behind. The pair huddled in the cramped gap under the APC and its hefty securing mechanism, waiting for what felt like an infinity of silent discomfort as the second patrol moved from each of the vehicles, checking their cockpits and passenger compartments.

Eventually they left, and the two fugitives emerged. "Thanks for that," Nuri said, and she actually sounded sincere.

"Anytime," Quarir leered.

Nuri sighed. "Are all Domarians as perverted as you?"

"I'm not Domarian," Quarir said, incensed. "I mean, sure, I lived on their worlds and colonies but I wouldn't  _call_  myself a Domarian. We're all from the same galaxy, yeah, but they're just… bastards. I'm not a pervert either," he added, realising that leaving that as an afterthought wasn't a good look.

"Whatever you say," Nuri said soothingly. "We're going to have to find somewhere to stay. When the razortrain sets off the speed will probably send us flying. Either that or the wind resistance will freeze us."

"We could always go back in the gap and huddle together. Y'know, hug each other for warmth."

"I was thinking that sitting inside an APC would be a better option. As would freezing to death, come to think of it."

* * *

A Domarian railtrans could move at over two thousand miles an hour. Quarir wasn't quite sure how fast the Combine's aptly named razortrain traversed its line, but he'd have guessed that it had broken the sound barrier a while back.

Yet, although it was likely that the simpler locomotive moved markedly slower than its Domarian counterpart, Nalore felt as if his head was being rhythmically pounded against a hard metal wall.

This was because his head was being rhythmically pounded against a hard metal wall. It was likely that the journey was so turbulent simply because the APCs weren't fastened to the freight latticework as strongly as they had looked, but for all he knew there were CPs sitting upfront in the monstrous carriages, falling over each other and considering it a first-class experience.

Nuri, irritatingly, seemed unfazed by their unsteady transit. She was leaning against the wall, dozing. If Quarir had asked she would have explained that once you learned to sleep through a Combine artillery barrage you could sleep through anything, but he didn't ask. He just sat down and sulked.

Once upon a time he'd have been in one of his many limousines about now, winging his way home from a high-powered business meeting. He would have been relaxing, thinking of his oversized hot tub, and possibly the various women sitting in it, depending on how much money he'd made on the day.

_If someone had told me that just over a year later I'd be fleeing a demolished city on some backwater planet while trying to undermine the presence of some generic galactic threat, I'd have laughed in their face._

Quarir considered this.  _No,_  he amended privately,  _I'd probably have had them shot. Just because I could._

It was odd, though. The Combine was one of the oldest, most powerful empires in existence, yet Maintonon had never worried about them. Not until very recently. In fact very few Domarians even knew of the encroaching borders of the Arcadimaarians, let alone the steady transdimensional territorial expansions of the Combine.

 _Then again_ , Nalore thought darkly,  _if we had no chance against either of them, what kind of leader would let us know?_

The razortrain abruptly stopped and the APCs pendulous motion sent him sprawling. Nuri woke up instantly, bright-eyed and annoyingly alert.

"That was quick. How long had we been moving?"

"Beats me," Quarir muttered grouchily, getting back to his feet. "An hour, if that."

Nuri nodded, and went to the APC's rear hatch. She opened it by the tiniest possible fraction, then, seeing nothing, she slid it all the way aside and leapt out. Nalore shouldered their backpack and followed her. It wasn't as if he had any other option.

So far Quarir had seen very little to expose the Combine presence. Granted, they'd fortified the rail bridge and employed their own trains on the lines, but just like everything he'd seen thus far they'd merely added to what was already there, utilising existing human architecture and adapting it for whatever function they felt it was most suited to.

But this station was purpose built. A nightmarish ribcage of black archways, a hideous but practical train depot, dropped in the middle of this country's rough terrain. Everything had a strange, almost organic sheen to it, from the bizarrely smooth concrete to the dark alloy that the Combine seemed to favour.

"Lovely," he said weakly. Nuri merely shuddered.

Several rail lines converged on the facility, but it seemed oddly deserted. As they made their way through it, they passed platform after empty platform. No passengers, no guards, nothing.

"This is a resettlement outpost," Nuri said in sudden, exasperated revelation. "We tried to avoid this place and we end up here  _anyway!_ "

Quarir conceded that she was probably right. He didn't know what to say, and impotency wasn't a sensation he savoured. He hated feeling helpless.

There was a gunshot, and Quarir and Nuri instinctively sought shelter behind a ridiculously slender pillar. Panicked shouts split the air, followed by the harsh commands of Civil Protection lackeys. The whole situation was all-too familiar.

The two of them slowly broke cover and edged across the concrete floor, making their way through the roof's supporting columns. Reaching a gap between the disconcertingly skeletal frameworks, they stared across four rail tracks at the platform beyond.

A dozen or so Metrocops were shepherding terrified civilians into an overcrowded carriage. It looked very different to the razortrain. Nalore was prepared to bet it was a native vehicle, old and inefficient.

One bloodied corpse lay sprawled across the concrete, presumably some ill-fated resistor to the Protectorate's relocation scheme. A woman was huddled over the body, sobbing, but an unsympathetic 'cop beat her once or twice with his metal cudgel, and she eventually allowed herself to be dragged in.

"Where do we go from here?" Nuri asked softly, a question meant more than herself than for her clueless companion. "Look at that compound," she said bitterly, indicating the low black walls of an improvised parking lot, "look at the APCs. I'm willing to bet these people are from  _the exact same_  mass abduction we tried to run away from—"

"Halt, citizens. What are you doing here?"

Quarir, without thinking, hit the CP in the face. The stunned guard staggered, and Nuri forcibly banged his head against the column to guarantee his silence. With a pitiful gasp, the officer crumpled.

"That was sensible," she said sarcastically. "He could have warned the lot of them. There might have been more than one, and we'd be dead by now."

"I'm bullet-proof, remember?  _I_  wouldn't be dead," he reminded her snidely. "Either way we're alive. Not to mention," he said thoughtfully, "better equipped." He seized the comatose 'cops pistol and baton.

"Never mind that," Nuri said dismissively, her eyes on the nearest train, "I've just had an idea…"


	6. Chapter 6

**City 17**

"Since it was  _my_  idea, I fail to see why you get to be the Metrocop," Nuri protested.

"That guy was my size. And you've still got that black eye so if anyone asks, I beat you up. For whatever reason."

"It doesn't suit you."

"Good." Quarir adjusted the padded black vest. It made no difference, it was still tight and itchy. "Since I'm always fashionable they'd never think it was me under this crap. Hah."

"Witty. Now put the amplifier on."

Pride forbade Nalore from asking exactly  _how_  he could affix the mask and its inbuilt transmitter to his head, so it was fortunate that he felt the face cover click into place after he applied gentle pressure to its sides.

"Can't see a thing," Quarir muttered, and both he and Nuri jumped as a voice, entirely unlike his own, croaked from out of the vocal unit.

"If you're going to talk to me take that off," Nuri hissed, "this ruse is probably doomed to failure as it is, never mind if you're swaggering around calling me 'chick'!"

"I rarely call you chick," Quarir said petulantly, removing the gasmask after a brief struggle with its fastenings. "And you're optimistic, aren't you? Like you said, it  _was_  your damn idea!"

"I was thinking more along the lines of you keeping them busy while I run to the train. The 'guard escorting prisoner' routine is the oldest trick in the book."

"Where I come from the oldest trick in the book is the one where we run in screaming and fill them all full of photonic death. I mean, metal. Hot lead. Whatever it is these things fire."

"It's going!" Nuri screeched.

Nalore slammed the mask back onto his face and made to follow, but Nuri restrained him.

"It's too late," she sighed, "it's too far gone." The train, filled past its capacity, was pulling out of the station. Even if they reached it, the sight of a lone citizen and a lone CP pursuing it would arouse suspicion.

"At least there aren't as many guards now," the synthetically enhanced voice barked.

Nuri hit her "Metrocop" escort on the shoulder. "Just stop talking already. There's another train over there and right now I don't care where it's going. We've got no chance of rescuing the others now." She thrust her ammunition-filled satchel in his face. "You carry this. Whoever heard of a captive with guns?"

Quarir hung the bag over his shoulder and checked the other platform. There were four guards, and the train had three carriages including its engine and the obligatory freight container. It was practically deserted.

Nuri, every inch the disconsolate prisoner, slowly strode ahead, her eyes on the pavement. Remembering his own part, Quarir kept his SMG on her back, and occasionally prodded her with the weapon.

"Who's this?"

Quarir met his apparent colleague's gaze unflinchingly, or at least his eyepieces. "Someone 'special'. Apparently the bitch tried to run from City 11, and they're having me take her to… a more fitting location."

One of the CPs chuckled nastily, but Nalore had the distinct feeling that the others weren't so convinced.

"Are you four taking this train?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

The troupe paused, and then shook their heads. "No."

"Right, I'd best go with her," he said dejectedly. "It'll be  _my_  ass on the line if she escapes again. They say she's a well known sympathiser, though she doesn't look much to me. But we always know how to persuade 'em to stay put, right?" He patted the baton on his belt and sneered.

One or two of them laughed in agreement and Nalore relaxed. They clearly didn't suspect him, at least not enough to challenge his feigned authority.

Nuri found herself wondering just what Quarir used to do. He was certainly convincing, so perhaps he really  _was_  the many-skilled alien super soldier he claimed to be.

She stumbled as he shoved her. "Get in. Now."

Repressing the urge to kick him, she stepped onboard. With a knowing gesture to the four Metrocops, who, to Quarir's intense relief, returned the wave, he followed.

She sat down, morosely, at a window, and he stood over her threateningly, brandishing the gun. For an agonising minute the train sat idle as they waited under the scalding scrutiny of the CPs, but a reassuring rumble heralded its departure, as did some incoherent mumbling from the station's announcement system.

Convinced they were out of danger, Nuri breathed again. "That was worrying."

" _You_  were worried?" Nalore sniffed, tossing the hated mask onto the red seating row as he collapsed beside it, "I don't think I've ever been so shaky." That much was true. Never in his heyday had he found lying so gruelling. But even then, there was that old tingle of excitement…

"Don't see why you care. You're bullet-proof," she mimicked.

" _Some_  of me is. A lot of my parts aren't, and they're all my favourite parts."

"Urgh." Nuri made a face. "Are all Domarians like you?"

"I'm not a Domarian and I'm sure you asked before but no, the others are very different to me."

Nuri nodded. "Reassuring. Now I can understand why this boss of yours doesn't want the Combine killing them off."

"That's not very funny."

* * *

Nalore dreamed. He dreamed of space, of armadas, of stars, of wars that scoured whole planets barren. He also dreamed, for some reason, of a gigantic lobster. It was lumbering around in a blue ocean but, in surreal clairvoyance, he knew that it was very unhappy with its lot. He supposed he would be, too, if he was a crustacean watching war waged upon high.

* * *

Nuri shook him, none too gently. "Wake up," she snarled. "Get your mask on  _now_."

"What's the problem?" he asked, yawning. Still muddled by sleep, he tried to resist, but she kept berating him until he donned the disguise.

Nuri grabbed his head and swivelled it so it faced out the window. "They are," she growled. "We've got to get moving."

They were in a station but this time, from the concrete and bland steel awnings, he knew it to be a native construct. Three strange metal contrivances were floating overhead a depressed-looking huddle of citizens, who were moving between platforms, hastily boarding trains not from their own desire for punctuality but from fear of punishment from the soldiers standing watch.

Nuri, practically crawling on her belly, approached the door. She rose cautiously, then gave it a good solid kick. The flimsy material concertinaed open and she stepped down onto the rails and, reasoning that she'd be shielded from view by the raised concrete and the idle locomotive, she ran pell-mell to the freight carriage.

Nuri grappled with the padlock, but found this last obstacle unmovable. She gave Quarir a withering glance as he caught up with her. "In your own time, there's no rush."

Flushing, he heaved on the lock, which split with a disturbingly loud pinging sound. Together, they slid the heavy door aside and pulled themselves up, closing themselves in  _just_  as they heard the drone of a flying scanner as it oversaw a pair of citizens embark.

Nuri, panting, lazily dodged the gasmask hurled her way by the piqued Nalore.

"Any reason you made me wear that?" he snapped over the train's engine.

"So that if we were spotted we'd be slightly better off than two runaway citizens," she explained levelly.

"I think you just like torturing me."

"Yes, I do consider that a perk."

* * *

They had no idea of knowing how far they'd roved, neither being quite sure of how long they'd been travelling, or just how fast their transport was moving; not to mention how their irregular sleep patterns had wreaked havoc upon their inner clocks.

Quarir was now grateful for his stolen uniform. Once he'd sweated in it prolifically, but now the getup was shielding him against the howling wind invading the gap left by their forced entry.

Nuri shivered amongst the dusty crates but she felt oddly heartened. They'd returned to civilisation, even if the civilisation in question had been corrupted beyond all recognition by the Combine.

"So," Nalore said as the locomotive drew to a shuddering stop, "where are we?"

"I'd presume one of the Cities," Nuri got up and stretched. "It's unlikely that this train would keep going between resettlement facilities." She pushed open the door, and after a well-practised search for hostiles, the two stowaways stepped down.

"Oh, no," she said, rather inexplicably.

"What? A rotorcraft? Those scanner-things? A Strider?" Quarir swallowed. "A Destroyer?"

Nuri just shook her head, and, as confused as ever, Nalore tagged along as she stealthily hugged the train. The carriage disgorged a trio of men, which was odd, because both fugitives would've sworn that only two had boarded. Convinced that the briefcase-carrying passengers and the vaguely familiar bearded one had neither seen nor heard them, they ran to the right-hand platform and the relative safety of its obtrusive wire fence.

"Who's that guy?" Nalore asked, nodding at the colossal video screen which dominated the station.

"Breen. Our 'spokesman'."

"Welcome," Breen boomed over unseen speakers, "to City 17."


	7. Chapter 7

**Dystopia Central**

"So is he the only guy on the vidscreen around here?"

"Yes."

"Whoa. The Propaganda Channel, 30/10." Quarir considered this. "A bit like the Council Media News, come to think of it."

"30/10?"

"You know, hours and days? Wait. You've got a 24 hour day here. I screwed that one up."

Smiling slightly, Nuri circumvented the fence, which, strangely enough, didn't run the platform's entire perimeter. The compound beyond overlooked the steady trickle of downtrodden citizens making their way through the expansive station; the place was littered with all sorts of refuse, and a hunched figure was attempting to sweep the floor clean…

"Vortigaunt. Those guys are friends too you people now, right?"

"Yes," Nuri confirmed, "but I think that one is shackled."

"Oh, the mind control things? Or mind reading. Whatever. Either way they get hurt if they do the wrong thing, right?"

"If by the wrong thing you mean whatever the Combine doesn't want them to do, then yes."

"Right."

The craggy-skinned alien was working steadily, although it hardly approached its tedious task with enthusiasm. A Metrocop, as coolly vigilant as ever, oversaw the otherworldly cleaner.

Fortunately, after they'd skulked in the shadows for  _just_  enough time to make them consider retracing their steps, the CP withdrew into a doorway and slowly made his way down a dark corridor.

"Right, let's go."

"Will you stop saying 'right'?" she snapped at him, "It's getting quite tiresome."

Nuri's stealthy walk had been perfected from years of persecution and flight, while Quarir's own abilities had come from the golden days when he'd stolen physical property rather than conning his way into the bureaucratic hearts of corporations. An observer would've been hard pressed to spot either—

"We see you, Nuri Dekker," intoned a throaty voice. "Come before the oppressor returns from their patrol. Inform your follower to stop shuffling through my paper. The pile took much work to complete."

Quarir guiltily stepped out of the fair-sized heap he'd just disturbed. Nuri, ever cautious, checked the area beyond the enclosure before stepping out.

"You need not fear detection. None have noticed you. Few ever look at this place. That is why my task is such an exercise in meaningless. An affront to my purpose."

Nuri eyed the bonded gate and the equally obstructive fence that bordered it. The Vort was friendly, as they always were, but if it was plugged into the Overwatch's sensory array, it would mean that the Combine could quickly be informed of their location.

"Do those things hurt?" Nalore asked the creature, innocently indicating the alien's green, luminescent shackles and neck brace.

"We are used to such devices. Note that mine are not functional, Quarir Nalore." It touched a strange device around what Nalore could only describe as its waist: it looked like a circuitry-wrapped chastity belt. "I am an emissary of Eli Vance. The oppressor mistakes me for one of my enchained brethren."

"How the hell do you know my name? I thought you guys were only telepathic amongst yourselves!"

"Yes. We remember you from Colony 351. It was an interesting incident."

"But 351 is in a different—" Quarir stopped. "Hey there aren't any Xenians on 351, we would've noticed!"

"You are gravely mistaken."

"That's all very fascinating." Nuri lied, disquieted by the discussion of topics she had no knowledge of, "But did you just mention Eli?"

"Secrete yourselves, they return."

The two human's scattered. The Vortigaunt was patiently tending the pile that Nalore had ruined when the CP arrived. The officer took very little interest in anything other than his charge, but lingered for many long moments before moving on.

"I'm getting sick of this," Nalore muttered, picking a snippet of wastepaper out of his ear.

"Endurance is the path to serenity. As our greatest philosopher once said, 'ch'lar grak dur vik-chuirl darlungh'."

"You sounded like a Desz. Well, a bit. They sound like phlegmy cement mixers."

" _Moving on,_ " Nuri interrupted as loudly as she dared, "you mentioned Eli Vance. How is he… I mean, how are they… how is everything going?"

"Since the fall of Ravenholm we have toned down our expeditions. Such acts attract too much attention and endanger us all."

"I heard about Ravenholm," Nuri said sadly. "But we all knew it would happen someday."

"Except for the hundreds that were claimed. They had no inkling that their final reckoning had come."

"I  _hate it_ ," Nuri glowered angrily, "when you are so… so calm about things like this!"

The Vortigaunt raised one of its three arms, and they sought cover for what felt like the longest period yet.

Eventually the CP left again, and Quarir dislodged a surprisingly large ball of crumpled packaging from his left nostril. "This is getting beyond a joke," he spat, tumbling out of the long-discarded produce.

"Yes," the Vortigaunt agreed solemnly, "I have waited here long enough, and an alien certainly warrants my return. My report shall be given, and you shall be aided. Remain here."

Quarir slowly realised that  _he_  was the alien the 'Gaunt was referring to. It was a disturbing thought, but then again, considering how much the Domarians had employed their technologies to best perfect their bodies, they  _were_  something other than human…

The Vortigaunt possessed an odd gait, but their loping stride covered ground efficiently. The janitor was within the corridor within moments, broom and all.

Solid, less organic footsteps followed, and after a few seconds there was a splintering sound, a barely audible gasp of surprise, and a thud.

"I have improvised, as the resistance teaches," the Vort announced. "The oppressor is dispatched. Follow me for the betterment of all our species. But note that you still have a ration wrapper in your hair."

* * *

"You must have damn good night vision," Quarir said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"We do see things differently," the Vortigaunt replied. "That much is accurate."

"I always wondered about getting my eyes augmented, but you wouldn't believe how much optics cost these days."

"We cannot claim to understand or desire bionics."

"Yeah, they're not to everyone's taste," Nalore shrugged. "I mean, back in Ucelsia some people see them as fashionable, but a lot of people still think they're weird."

"We are trying to sneak through a disused access tunnel," Nuri said with great restraint. "It's practically pitch black. And you are discussing the finer points of disgusting plug-ins that I've never heard of."

"Better than just stumbling around and sneezing from the dust," snapped Quarir, who, in a few poetic seconds, sneezed and walked into a small boiler.

"This deep within the labyrinth, you need fear no Combine presence," the 'Gaunt began, apparently ignorant of Quarir's bruised pride and Nuri's stifled hysterics, "these tunnels are no longer useful to their twisted cause. They are a place of refuge."

Nuri yelped and tripped over a corroded pipe that was inexplicably running across the floor. Quarir helped her back up, and although it was too dark for her to be certain she would've bet a week's rations that he was wearing a suitably smug expression.

"Chuy-gug glo'wroina," the Vort exclaimed in a voice like damp gravel. "There is no need for this to continue. By the journey's end you would both be worn to dust by your collisions. Secrecy is no longer our aspiration…"

With those words, the Vortigaunt brought light into being. It wasn't much, merely painting the edges of their surroundings in neon green, but it at least meant they wouldn't blunder into the clearly defined obstacles.

"That's pretty impressive," Quarir said approvingly. The source of the illumination appeared to be an emerald flame in the alien's palm, but on closer inspection the glow was down to a tiny, flickering bolt of electricity, constantly wavering between two of the Vort's fingertips.

The 'Gaunt said nothing, just nodding and moving on.

For a moment Quarir did too, but then he stopped, and just gaped at the scene before him.

"There are a  _hell_  of a lot of dead people here," he breathed. Nuri actually retched slightly.

The corpses were old and desiccated, mostly rag-clad skeletons littered between the dilapidated machinery. And yet none of the faded clothes resembled standard citizenry attire, Nuri realised, wondering just how old the bodies were…

"These passages were scene to a massacre," the 'Gaunt began, acting as historian and tour guide. "The workers once stationed here refused to bow to the Combine. They instead remained and lived off supplies. But the Combine struck back at their defiance, and made them an example to us all."

"They didn't even move the bodies?" Nuri grimaced in disgust. "That's just—"

"Inhuman? Last I checked the Combine scumbags  _weren't_  human," Quarir ranted.

"Nor are we, but we value life and mourn every tie that is severed. Respect is not exclusive to your species."

The two humans had the decency to look embarrassed, but brightened up considerably when the tunnel did likewise. A steep ramp led up and out, and— as contrived as it sounded coming from a man who'd spent most of his adult life inside a floating metal box— Quarir was glad to see sunlight again.

"Yes. We often find your world intriguing. An interesting but melancholy change of climes."

"Xen didn't have sunrises or sunsets like that?" Nuri asked skeptically, indicating the magnificent skyline. It was ruined only by the ever-present Citadel on the horizon.

"No. But somehow your world still instills a sense of purpose. Of safety—"

"Which is a false sense, I assure you."

Two bullets split the air and hammered into the Vortigaunt's craggy hide, spilling yellowish blood upon the soil.

"Surely you didn't think a few primitive combustibles would stop me?"

And there, before them, holding Nuri's long-lost .357 in an extravagant gauntlet… was the Zealot.

* * *

 _Okay_ , Nalore thought calmly, even as their Vortigaunt ally twitched spasmodically,  _think rationally. This freak is probably a thousand years old, and he's probably assassinated hundreds of people, easily. So fighting is out of the question. You'll just have to think your way out._

"Oh shit," he said aloud.

"Indeed," said the ancient psychopath, who appeared completely unharmed by his brush with a salvo of high-explosive missiles. "Please excuse the projectile weapon. I merely thought it would be appropriately ironic to finish you things off with it."

"Won't do to much to me," Quarir waved a hand dismissively, although he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that the high calibre round would probably still be fatal with a sufficiently precise shot. "You didn't plan too far ahead, did you?"

"Oh, you're very wrong. I maintained my more… traditional weaponry."

The Zealot made a slight gesture with his free hand, and a blinding flash leapt from his gilded digits and struck Nalore.

He felt as if a bar of white-hot iron had been slammed across his body: the SMG he'd been covertly trying to raise skidded across the floor as it broke his grip. Just as Quarir tried to overcome the intense pain the Zealot twiddled his metal-clad fingers, lazily sending another blast towards him, this time lifting him off his feet and smashing him against a crumbling (but still excruciatingly solid) brick wall.

Smugly, the alien tormentor turned his attentions towards Nuri... and got a torso-full of 9mm rounds. She'd been prepared enough to seek shelter behind a jagged fragment of concrete, realising that Nalore, in a moment of rare bravery, had bought her enough time to do so. But she hadn't been prepared for the bored way that the  _thing_  shrugged off her admittedly meagre firepower. The bullets had sparked off its tastelessly gleaming chest plate as if it had been crafted from a Strider's chitin…

A .357 round left a smoking hole inches from her head. " _You_  are conveniently fragile, of course," the Zealot informed her friendlily. "Fitting that your own weapon will claim your life."

Two more shots rang out... and missed, as Nuri deftly rolled towards a second outcropping of debris. Grunting in mild frustration, the Arcadimaarian fired his last shot, showering her in harmless dust as that, too, managed to miss her.

"Not that advanced really, are you?" she called out. Mocking an assassin with a superiority complex was hardly the wisest move to make, but it might allow Quarir time enough to recover and besides, the arrogant bastard deserved irritation…

"I do admit that this weapon is far less potent than I expected," the Zealot confessed, exposing the revolver's innards and dislodging the spent cartridges as if he meant to reload it. "Not even the most basic guidance system. I gave your society too much credit, but I can always improvise."

He waved a hand over the gun's empty chambers, and a second later six glossy bullets were nestled cosily inside. Nuri swallowed.

"I don't remember it doing that," said Quarir.

The Zealot whirled and fired at the prone Domarian, who managed to take the shot on his forearm. "You people mock us for using machines and sneer at the Combine for using biotech," Nalore snarled, sliding behind a rusty generator and blindly pawing for the dropped SMG, "and yet you come down here with your shiny amplifiers and powered armour and lord over us. It's just sad. What, your psionics too shitty?"

He regretted the remark instantly— three more of the pulsing bolts of light hit home, and he again found himself lain across the broken bricks, unconsciousness threatening to envelop him. He'd have sooner been wrestling with a damn bullsquid… at least Xenians were consistent.

Nuri broke cover, firing as she leapt towards the wall with a vaguely Nalore-shaped indentation, and her rash move was rewarded when three bullets clipped the white-haired killer's face, leaving bloody gouges in his cheek.

The Arc winced, gingerly touching the gaping wounds, but as he did so they healed up as if they'd never existed, engulfed by benign white energy. "Enough of this," he spat, pointing both hands out towards the brick barricade, positioning them as if he was holding an invisible sphere.

The blast pulverised the wall with a sinisterly quiet impact, sending charred bricks flying overhead. Neither human was hurt, but they found themselves huddling beside a large crater, bereft of shelter.

The Zealot shook his head disapprovingly. "Two civilisations' best offerings laid to rest already," the Zealot tutted, levelling the revolver at his two defiant targets. "I'd really have expected m—"

_Zhhhum._

A brilliant orb of energy zapped out of nowhere, striking the alien's shoulder and severing his limb. Gasping, the Arcadimaarian grasped his horrific injury, only for the Dark Energy grenade to rebound off a chunk of concrete and strike his chest, where it exploded in a shower of bright sparks.

Close to death, the ridiculously hardy Zealot wheezed something unintelligible, and vanished in a crackle of golden light.

A well-built, white-uniformed soldier sporting a cyclopean helmet and an angular pulse rifle loomed over the fugitives.

"A Combine Elite," Nuri breathed, half shocked, half relieved.

"Is that better or worse?" Quarir muttered. And then he fainted.


	8. Chapter 8

**Potential Scenarios**

The Citadel was a colossal construct. Surpassing the clouds of the atmosphere, it was so tall as to be impressive even to some of the galaxy's more advanced civilisations.

An erratic tower of constantly shifting plates of metal, the dark structure sat in a foggy abyss smashed through the Earth's crust long ago. Huge, ponderous machines worked continuously in these gloomy catacombs, just a few of the innumerable devices constantly geared towards maintaining the Citadel and its surrounding territory.

Wires of all kinds, some electrical, some meant as suspension, snaked out from the structure, webbing the city together in the vast monitoring and data processing network referred to as the Overwatch, a recon system that had become essential to the Civil Protection services.

Indeed, some of the cables served this purpose exclusively. One such line meandered through the subterranean depths, eventually emerging from the ground and into a clinically clean Combine-garrisoned building.

Forty was one of the Benefited. The ignorant referred to his kind as a "Combine Elite", lingering on his improved combat abilities rather than his higher brain functions. But even amongst Elites, he was special.

Forty was a higher being, the closest step yet towards human perfection. He had embraced the Combine's technology and ethos, even as he rejected his memories and personality.

He manipulated the computer console before him as if it was his brethren; which, in a way, it was. Metrocops referred to Forty as a "him", but mostly because they were afraid that "it" would be construed as an insult and they didn't want to take any chances.

Forty had no concept of political opinion or belief, knowing only that the Benefactors would save mankind. But as he was one of the few beings on the planet that could counter the choice operatives of any interloper, the Universal Union concluded that he and his fellows should at least possess knowledge of outsiders.

The Domarians, both he and the Overwatch's archive knew, were a small, 780-planet empire that relied on advanced technology plundered from relics left by a long extinct race, including a hyper-intelligent computer that was their self-imposed ruler. The Extinct— dubbed the Uclasions by the Domarians— were thought to be the only species older than the Union, wiped out either by infighting or disease, both concepts incomprehensible to the Benefited. The Domarians' closest genetic relatives were humans, indicating that they'd undergone a similar evolutionary process involving primates, and hinting at some sort of temporal offsetting in their respective dimensions.

Forty concluded that the subject, "Quarir", was some sort of Domarian agent. His augmentation was simplistic but nevertheless above human capability, and his profile revealed him to be a genetically-enhanced serumite like the majority of Domarians.

The Arcadimaarians were not only older than the Domarians but had also been encountered many times before. The network was saturated with data relating to them. The Arcadimaarians utilised Uclasion-derived technologies— primarily terraforming, terracreation, nanotech manipulation and psionic amplification, and were more than capable of interdimensional travel.

Their empire's exact size was unknown, but they were thought to possess at least 100,000 hospitable planets across at least five dimensions, albeit with the majority of their worlds being part of their home galaxy. Small fry, but still a minor competitor amongst the countless civilisations the Union had analysed.

Unlike the enlightened Union, Arcadimaarians either enslaved rival species or drove them to extinction. They attempted no assimilation, reasoning that all other life forms were inferior and thus all other technologies were unworthy of their use. Their ruling class— the "High Caste"— actively utilised genetic facilities to build variations of their own kind, all tweaked to best employ their natural telepathic capabilities. These so-called "Psychevores" ranged from ageless concubines to tireless servants and soldiers that leeched off pain and fear. They used the resultant energies to feed themselves or power purpose-built weaponry.

The "Perfected" were a bastardisation of the Universal Union's Benefited, members of the High Caste adapted to one purpose. The creature eliminated at the disused warehouse was thought to be an Arcadimaarian infiltrator of some sort. Forty had retrieved the being's severed limb for study but the actual body had been consumed by some sort of self-destructive process of last-resort. They appeared to rely exclusively on genetic adaptation, rather than the bionic/biological processes favoured by the Union and, to a lesser extent, the Domarians. There was a possibility that there was psionics-driven nanotechnology involved, but there was no conceivable remnant in the arm to support such a conclusion.

Forty moved to the computer's next entry, reminding himself that the female was a human called "Nuri". She was thought to have been an unrelated bystander, although she possessed a firearm without permission and was a noted terrorist sympathiser.

Forty considered the possibilities.

Domarian/Arcadimaarian co-operation was implausible: the combat appeared genuine and their long lasting hostilities fostered hatred between both sides. Human/Arcadimaarian co-operation was equally ludicrous, due to the Arcadimaarian's scorn of all other life. Human/Domarian co-operation was highly unlikely, as neither species would gain anything from an alliance or the temporary "liberation" of mankind. Ultimately a single planet was irrelevant to all sides.

Forty agreed with the Overwatch terminal's synopsis. The incident was down to nothing more than coincidence. Scouts from both civilisations had simultaneously surveyed this planet in an attempt to reconnoitre different sectors of the Union. Such an event was highly improbable but the most likely explanation.

Nuri and Nalore were incarcerated, destined for  _eventual_  interrogation and possibly dissection.

Forty and his peers had more pressing issues to consider. The Citadel was on full alert, dense clouds of scanner units swarming out of openings to flood City 17 as Hunter-Seeker helicopters scoured the surrounding lands just as thoroughly.

Freeman was here. And no amount of perceived interplanetary threats would draw Breen's attention away from him.

* * *

The cell had a window, but it was blatantly obvious that it was present merely to save wear and tear on light bulbs during daylight hours. Even then, the grimy, narrow opening barely illuminated the chamber. Nuri knew after her first glance that the thick glass was too far from the floor to be a viable means of escape.

It didn't stop her repeatedly using her uncomfortably hard bed as an ineffectual springboard. She got close to the distant window but soon realised that the sheer walls and deep-set frame prevented her making any headway.

Finally, after she'd landed heavily for the umpteenth time, Nuri sat disconsolately on her bed and thought of escape, a big meal, a hot shower and Quarir. But not in that order.

* * *

 _I stink,_  Quarir thought.  _And I hurt. Equal parts hurt and stink._

He had two .357 rounds lodged somewhere in his body, several sprained muscles, broken ribs and burns caused by some sort of… psychic energy… stuff. But, although the white-clothed Combine apparently wanted him alive, they didn't bother issuing him pain relief as his augmentations meant he wasn't in a life-threatening condition.

He wasn't exactly in agony, as the few thousand (or was that million?) nanodrones in his blood were slowly repairing the damage to his body, but whenever he moved he had an unpleasantly cold sensation in his upper chest which he just  _knew_  was down to cooling lead in a sensitive area.

Nalore wished he'd been one of those shallow bastards who treated augmentations like fashion accessories. Then he'd could've been some sort of killer cyborg maniac, rather than a disgraced businessman who was moping around a prison cell, worrying over whether he was still vulnerable to lead poisoning.

He also considered the possibility that, after a token interrogation, the Combine would have him tortured or vivisected. Or possibly both simultaneously, to save time. Strangely, that didn't bother him too much, but he still harboured feelings of anger and guilt— guilt at failing the nation that  _was_  his home, if only he'd admitted it to himself, guilt at failing Nuri and her weird but vaguely pleasant planet, anger at that bloody computer who had given him very little instruction and then sent him down here to die—

" _It is nice to see that you are as cheerful as ever, Nalore."_

"What the…?!"

" _I did tell you that I would contact you later. You evidently paid me very little attention during your briefing."_

"How the haemorrhaging hell are you talking to me?" Quarir snarled at the unseen Supercomputer.

" _A telepathic link. As I have explained repeatedly."_

"It'd be a damn sight more clever to send a horde of mechs down here to clean up!"

" _That level of matter would be incredibly difficult to transport. Although I am using enough power to light up Ucelsia for a day to communicate with you, it is a far more useful allocation of resources._

" _Useful?_  I'll tell you what would've been useful! Teleporting a gun in here for me! How am I meant to undermine the Combine presence here if—?"

" _As I say,"_  Maintonon interrupted, " _you must have paid me little heed. There is an individual here far more suited to weakening the Combine's hold on this world. Your objective is far more… diplomatic."_

"Whatever! Just cut the mysterious crap and get me out of here!"

" _All in good time, Nalore. But you are going to have to listen to me very carefully. You are going to have to set aside your petty grievances."_

"And why's that? I don't see why I should—"

" _Because in 3.4 minutes a Combine operative will take you away for questioning. And if you do not get your story straight they_ _ **will**_   _kill you and the woman._   **CONSIDER THAT** _."_

* * *

Quarir was not a man who was used to taking orders, or even to issuing them. He'd always operated alone simply because he knew his own limits and knew just how reliable he really was, and— until the appearance of a certain manipulative computer— he'd never listened to anyone else in his life.

But he was a good judge of character. You had to be, if you wanted to be a successful con artist instead of one of the innumerable corpses the Security services frequently dredged out of the canals. And thus, even though she wasn't of his world, Quarir had decided that Nuri could be trusted and that, more importantly, she would make a convincing liar.

The only problem now, of course, was telling her this, and finding time enough to coordinate their accounts. Since they were being roughly frogmarched out of their respective cells, he'd have to schedule a more appropriate slot for a brainstorming session. Mentioning that a Supercomputer had popped into his head and explained what they had to do next probably wouldn't have gone down to well with anyone. It was the kind of thing that would need the diplomatic skills that were Quarir's bread and butter.

"You know," he began falteringly, trying to strike up a conversation with his captor, "that's an interesting helmet. Is it just a focusing sensor, or do you really have only one eye?"

"Shut up," said the Combine Elite.

"Fair enough. Must be a sensitive issue. Talking of sensitive issues, could you put my other arm behind my back? 'Stead of this one? It's just that I've got a bullet in my elbow, and  _aargh_. Right, just a suggestion, you can relocate my shoulder now please…"

As distracting as she found Nalore's spirited attempts to taunt their escort, Nuri let herself be half-dragged through the complex, subdued as she was by a sense of quiet awe. Although she'd never been in this particular government building before the Combine put their indelible mark on human society, she knew enough to know just how many alterations had been made. Sharp, caseless cables ran across every wall between pointed brackets, and every surface was bedecked with all manner of console and terminal.

And yet, despite their appearance, the control arrangements were unsettlingly familiar. The Combine, it seemed, favoured large, obvious buttons and sensible layouts, although perhaps only to cater to their demihuman cohorts. She was near-certain, for example, that the shimmering force field blocking one staircase was toggled by the tactfully placed device beyond it. It was dotted with lights and gauges and small, more subtle switches, but she was fairly convinced that these would manage the intricacies of the field's workings, leaving its actual activation to a protruding control.

She made a note of her finding, even as she shuddered at the idea that the Combine's lackeys still retained recognisably human preferences. But a big button was a big button. They could use that.

After his shoulder had stopped firing exploding stars into his vision, Quarir became aware of just how empty the place felt. Machines lined every wall but he'd only seen a couple of the white-clad troopers—

A door opened, and Nalore's feet briefly left the ground as his freakishly strong guard flung him into a room. Despite his best efforts to cushion his fall, the impact jarred through every bone in his body, blinding him with yet another dizzying firework display.

Nuri got away with a shove since her own usher hadn't found her as annoying as Quarir. The Combine Elite made as if to slam the door in her face, but another gently blocked his arm, making a vague hand signal. The guard nodded, and withdrew, allowing his apparent superior to enter the room.

Quarir eyed him up, and quickly banished all thoughts of overpowering him from his mind.  _This_  was the guy who had taken down a Zealot… and saved their lives, although he hated to admit it.

* * *

Forty strode confidently into the room. Because he knew of no other way to walk, negative feelings not being a part of his limited repertoire. He scanned the pair, who simply stood motionless.

Forty was about to begin the strictly-regulated Interrogation Protocol, more than willing to resort to extreme force if his captives attempted non-compliance, when the door swung back open. allowing Thirty-Eight back inside.

Quarir and Nuri watched blankly as the two Elites briefly conversed. Their words were mostly lost in the synthesised gargle that plagued all Combine vocal amplifiers but it sounded urgent. They both left, the door slamming behind them.

Nuri looked around. There were several chairs, all with sturdy constraints, and the walls were lined with sealed containment units holding horrors that Nuri could only imagine…

"Right," Quarir said cheerfully, "first things first, let's screw up their security system."

He sidled over to one of the containers, and smashed it open with his good arm. Whistling, he rummaged through the awful-looking contents, eventually producing what Nuri recognised as a Civil Protection Pacifier: a stunstick.

"What on Earth are you going to do with that stun baton?" she asked incredulously.

"Going to try and zap those computers into life, or at least vandalise them," he announced, moving over to the hulking great cabinet that dominated the room.

 _Nuri doesn't look too impressed_ , Quarir thought,  _and Maintonon won't be either. But if that metal bastard thinks I'm just going to sit here and run my mouth off he's got another thing coming…_

Deciding that he didn't have much to lose, Quarir crossed his fingers (both of which still hurt) and slammed the stunstick into the flashing lights at the heart of the cabinet.

It shuddered ominously for a moment, sparks spraying from all openings, and then its sides opened outwards, revealing a vast array of monitors and buttons.

"Jackpot!"

"That was blind luck" Nuri said, visibly shaken. "You might have triggered an alarm! Do you even know how to use that thing?"

"If you want to take a shot at it, be my guest!"

"Well I drove the APC, remember? Let me try."

Quarir stepped aside and within moments Nuri had all three screens lit up, displaying promising hieroglyphics.

"This data is written in English and some sort of pictograms," she announced.

"As if I hadn't realised that," Nalore sniffed. He hadn't.

"I'm not sure if this is a control unit or just some sort of browser. I don't know how to—"

Quarir sighed and hit a random key. "Worth a try," he told Nuri's shocked expression.

The screens flickered, and then showed… images. Strange images.

"This is some sort of database," Quarir gaped. "Hey, look, they've got Synth in it! And that's a Murocrachian! That's the sort of jellyfish bubble alien. But I don't know what the fishy-looking thing is. Ugly. What the hell does that blue quarter-circle mean?"

He hit the button again, much to Nuri's consternation.

"Oh, right, it's some sort of threat level. Look, that Vortigaunt's got a quarter-blue 5-point rating, but this nasty-looking thing with four arms has a third of a circle, so it must be more dangerous. What's that thing? Looks like a Domarian kileech. Wait, no, it's got lots of eyes, its Xenian. Xen leech. 1 green point. Practically harmless."

"They're deadly in groups," Nuri amended. "Look. Next to it there's another circle: seven points, yellow. Must be when operating as a group."

"Yeah, because the 'Gaunt and the four-armed things have higher ratings there too. I think you're right."

Quarir paused contemplatively for a moment, then hit a couple of buttons at random. Nuri didn't object, he was clearly on a roll.

"Hey, people! Looks like some of yours."

"That's Eli Vance!" Nuri exclaimed, pointing an excited finger at the elderly red-rated human. "And that man with a beard… he's familiar…"

"Orange armour?" Quarir made a face. "No accounting for taste. But hell, look, he's got a 20-point red circle with another circle in the middle. Combine must think he's  _real_  dangerous."

He hit another button.

"What, a Domarian entry?" Quarir panicked. "They're not supposed to know about… oh, it's a Behemoth." He relaxed. "That's fine, they're technically Uclasion. Got a double-red-circle too. Not surprised, the things are like fifty or sixty foot tall or something."

"That's… big…" Nuri hazarded.

"Believe it or not that's tiny compared to some enemy mechs but the Combine must have seen one in action. Don't think we've ever lost a Behemoth in combat," Quarir said proudly.

Nuri was just glad that the Domarians weren't their enemies. The war robot was vaguely humanoid in a squat, heavyset way and looked like it had been chiseled out of black rock. In fact its sheen was oddly reminiscent of Combine alloy.

Quarir hit the button again, even as Nuri backed away for some reason. "Ooh, Arcadimaarians," he said, in mock fear. "Combine must have seen a lot of them. A Psychevore, some sort of toff with a sword... hey, a Zealot. No rating. Either they think a killer psychic isn't dangerous or they haven't got enough data yet, hah!"

"We better log off now," Nuri said urgently.

"Why? I'm starting to think they might have me on here! I'm... oh."

Forty was back.


	9. Chapter 9

**Interrogation**

"I am Forty."

"You're scum!"

"If you had complied this would have been far easier for both of us," Forty told Quarir flatly.

"You just killed Nuri!"

"The female is not dead. She is unconscious. If you had not tried to overpower me I would not have had to incapacitate her. The fault lies with you."

Even though relief poured through his veins, Quarir gave the thing the finger. Or rather, he at least attempted to: both of his hands were shackled to the arms of his remarkably uncomfortable chair.

 _I'm an idiot,_  thought Quarir.  _I panicked. We both tried to jump Forty, but Nuri would never have done it if I hadn't made the first move._   _Stupid, stupid, stupid..._

If Forty had been anyone else, their joint attack would have worked: but the stun baton had had no effect on the Elite whatsoever. In a moment he'd neutralised them both, moving with such speed that Quarir had barely been able to follow his movements, let alone dodge them.

"You locked us up without explanation," said Quarir, "so of course we tried to escape."

"You are an interloper who came to this planet without our permission."

"It's not yours," Quarir snapped, his eyes briefly flicking to Nuri's prone form. "You've got plenty of planets! What do you need this one for?"

"I gather you represent an empire represented on almost eight hundred worlds. I doubt that they all joined of their own accord."

"Yeah? We never turned up uninvited, and we didn't force our technology down anyone's throat."

Forty made a rare movement, mechanically tilting his head to one side, an oddly human motion that made Nalore shiver. "That is also a falsehood," the Combine Elite continued. "You interfered in galactic events and colonised worlds that you 'liberated'. Similarly, the Union beheld the plight of humanity and gathered them up for their own betterment."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure they just  _love_  the daily beatings…"

"They were a self-destructive society. Under the Union, theft is rare and murder is unheard of. Our methods will support humanity in the long run. You are blind to our similarities. Your Security services are granted power to incarcerate anyone they consider to be a threat and you have spread bionics and genetic manipulation to cultures that have barely mastered sanitation. And yet you would argue that  _you_  have improved lives."

"We have!"

"As have we. We control more worlds than you could imagine. We have armadas that could annihilate your own civilisation… but we do not see the need. Ucelsia is such an interesting construct—"

" _How the hell do you know all this?!"_  Quarir demanded. The Combine weren't even meant to be aware of the Domarians'  _existence_ , and yet they knew how Security was ran for god's sake...!

"Reconnaissance," Forty intoned simply. "We have many agents agents like yourself."

"I—" Quarir began, and then he stopped himself. This guy thought he was a scout. That would be a helluva lot easier to explain his way out of, not like being a saboteur or an assassin or a spy…

"We do admit that we have little information on you compared to other residents of your universe, but you might be surprised by just how rare it is for a species like yours to colonise whole star systems without exterior intervention."

 _Aha,_  Nalore thought gleefully,  _they don't know about Maintonon!_

"Of course, we soon found out about the Uclasion Mainframe that aids you."

_They do know about Maintonon. Damn damn damn damn damn…_

"And we also know of the long lasting enmity between your kind and the Arcadimaarian species. A most interesting history."

"I bet you know a lot about the Arcs, huh?"

"Yes. We do. We have even taken control of some of their outlying territories and brought their occupants closer to unity."

_Ooh, crap. Just what we need, killer psychics working for genius slugs…_

"In retaliation they destroyed the planets in question. We saved very few of our Benefited subjects."

… _but maybe they're a fair match for each other after all. Interesting._

"But enough of ancient history, Quarir Nalore. Now we must discuss… other topics. And I am authorised to take whatever means necessary to—"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll tell you why I'm here— the Domarians want to join the Union."

For the first time in his new life, Forty was stunned.

* * *

Quarir hadn't expected such an immediate effect. The Elite was silent for a full minute, dumbstruck by the implications of his charge's statement.

 _So am I,_  Nalore admitted to himself.  _I hope I haven't got myself in too deep this time…_

It was an old problem of his, making things up on the spot. Acting on impulse or the vague inkling of some half-formed plan had got him into plenty of undesirable situations. But he'd talked his way out… hadn't he survived the scrutiny of Security's Enforcer droids, the most persistent cops and interrogators ever known?

Well… admittedly the last time the two ten foot mechs had roughed him up and imprisoned him, pending his recruitment by a neurotic computer, but it was likely the Combine would do worse if they doubted his story. All things considered, he fancied his chances.

"The Domarians want to join the Union," Forty stated suddenly, more to check his own aural feedback than anything else.

"Yeah," Quarir shrugged nonchalantly, "it's our best option."

"This is a deception," came the slightly querulous response.

"Well, to be accurate, we're  _considering_  it. It's not like I can speak for Command. There's probably all sorts of high up negotiation— dunno if the Union itself has been approached yet. Although I guess they must have, right? Because you don't seem shocked by the idea of a scout telling you this instead of a diplomat," Quarir amended with innocent abandon.

He revelled in the idea of the thing's inner discomfort. It didn't know what to do. Even though Nalore was practically welded to the galaxy's most awful chair it was as if  _he_  was doing the interrogation… it was like that time a few years back, when that snotty journalist guy really shook up what's-his-face the politician. That was really memorable.

"The Mainframe would not want to undermine its own authority," Forty continued, his voice once again emotionless, although a shadow of uncertainty still haunted his inhuman brain.

"Look, the Supercomputer doesn't think we can manage ourselves. You know that."

"Correct…"

"And  _it_  doesn't think we can face off against the Arcadimaarians. They outnumber us and they've got a whole lot of firepower at their disposal."

"You have Ucelsia."

 _Uh oh,_  thought Quarir.  _How do I explain my way around an indestructible artificial planet…?_

"Won't do us much good when the rest of our empire crumbles around it," he hazarded, trying to act as casual as possible. "It's heavily populated, sure, but the majority of Domarians live elsewhere."

"Correct…"

"The way the Domarian public sees it, joining the Union is our best bet. I mean, I was kind of against the idea but I look at how you conquered and imposed rule on this backwards planet— no offence— and then think what it was like before and I, well..." Nalore trailed to a halt, as if remembering something, but he was secretly trying to gauge the Elite's reaction.

_Heh, you can just see the hope in his eyes. Despite the lens. And the fact he's only got one eye._

"Hold on," Quarir said, in bogus outrage, "why are you asking me all this? You guys already know all about it! What, you think I'm an Arc spy or something? C'mon, since when have those bastards tried anything covert? They just kill any Domarians they see!"

"Excuse me for a moment," said Forty, who promptly left the room.

 _Well, not a bad start,_  Quarir reasoned.  _Damn sight better than having the bastard stick electric prods in my favourite places._

* * *

**Forty's mind was in turmoil, at least by his standards. Like all members of the Beneficium, Forty was… altered. Improved upon, through various tried and tested methods; some involving psychological conditioning, some genetic manipulation, others the bonding between organic matter and the silicon-based biotech of the Synth.**

Forty was subtly different to most of the other personnel in his unit. He was, to all intents and purposes, a prototype, amongst the best that humanity had to offer the Universal Union. He was Benefited, both in title and in incentive, but the Beneficium was merely an association of representatives of perfected species, not a council or commune. They shared no convenient hive mentality, no galaxy-spanning communication devices… they were merely the elite of the Union, acting on the orders of their superiors.

But he knew that he was not socially adept. This species' finest would not turn out to be diplomats. He was having difficulty judging whether the Domarian subject was telling the truth. Damn his human remnant and how it affected his logic! Damn the fragments of his lesser incarnation that still lingered in this otherwise faultless form!

And yet he revelled in the excitement, a feeling all the stronger for its taboo rarity. The Combine made genuine efforts to avoid conflict when possible: after all, it was such a waste of time and resources. They'd welcomed humanity's surrender. It meant less for them to clear up in the aftermath of the 7 Hour War.

But for a space faring race with access to vast stockpiles of weaponry and produce belonging to one of the Extinct... for such a race to come to them, willingly, and beg to become a part of them…

**…** **that was perfect. It would seal his purpose, prove that humanity's Benefited were worthy. Prove that Dr. Breen could run this world adequately, prove that the planet's tactically defunct position did not prevent its use as an ambassadorial outpost or a centre for general excellence.**

And then something happened that smothered all of Forty's elation.

**_The_ ** **siren went off. It was subtlety different to the normal alarm. To the untrained eye, it sounded exactly the same, and the flashing lights that accompanied the wail seemed an identical red.**

But Forty and his kind knew that it meant conformation. Conformation that Freeman was back, a human considered so dangerous that he ranked alongside world-eating nanotech plagues and war machines that could obliterate armies.

Compared to Freeman, the galaxy suddenly seemed mundane.

* * *

Quarir waited. Even though he appeared outwardly calm at the delay, he was not a patient man. Just as he could be friendly to an individual he despised, so could he make himself out to be the very picture of serenity when in truth he was beginning to panic.

That's when the siren went off, and it startled him, even though it wasn't particularly loud. A small ruby light above the door began flashing and moments later he could hear heavy footsteps, even through the thick metal of the door and over the screaming of the alarm. A veritable stampede was passing the interrogation chamber.

There was grunt, laced with fatigue and pain, and with a great deal of effort Nalore managed to incline his head towards the sound. Nuri grimaced and pulled herself upright, clutching her skull in a futile attempt to shield her headache from the aggravating siren.

Quarir was immensely glad to see that the Elite hadn't lied. She  _was_  alive. He was even gladder when he realised that their captor had neglected to restrain her, having left her comatose form in the corner. That meant they could escape…

Rather abruptly, the siren stopped, leaving them stranded in eerie silence once more.

"I'm alive? That's a good start," Nuri murmured, as if reading Quarir's thoughts.

"Either that or I'm doing some  _really_  wishful thinking," Nalore grinned. "Want to get me out of here?"

"What about the Combine Elite? What happened?"

"The guy ran off when the siren started," Quarir told her, and that was at least partially true. "And his name is Forty. I think he's some kind of…  _Elite_  Elite."

Nuri nodded, and began examining the heavy shackles around Nalore's ankles and wrists. "Can't you break out yourself?"

"You kidding? I'm a bion, not a damn mech. No way could I break this Combine stuff. Never seen an alloy like it before. Thank god."

"I can't see any locks or controls on your chair," she began falteringly, approaching the monolithic terminal on the far wall, "it's probably controlled by the computer console."

"The Elite sealed its cabinet  _and_  all the storage cylinders in here," Quarir sighed. "No convenient batons that we can fry the lock with."

Nuri began kicking the nearest of the three containers, but although it rattled and rocked slightly it never came close to opening. She gave up despairingly. " _You_  managed it," she said bitterly.

"It was worth a try. Besides, it's because I'm a bion. I'm like 80% stronger than normal."

"At least you didn't use the word primitive this time."

"Hey, I could if you wanted. Looks like you could use some cheering up, and you seem happiest when you're berating me."

Despite herself, Nuri smiled.

Her smile vanished when the cabinet juddered open, glancing her across her shoulders and causing her to fall, more from the shock than the force of the blow.

Golden sparks began pouring from the computer banks' numerous panels, random images interposing with static and scrolling across the three screens. Even from her position on the ground Nuri could've sworn that she'd seen Breen's face amongst the interference.

Nalore turned to watch the scene in confused awe, even though the neck brace was threatening to strangle him. He could also make out the vaguely memorable visage of Dr. Breen, but also other faces he didn't recognise, mostly masked Metrocops and the odd world-weary citizen. One guy who did crop up a lot was some middle-aged, dark-haired character with heavy bags under his eyes. And those eyes, slightly greener than they should've been, were hauntingly familiar.

Suddenly the screens flashed blinding white, and the keyboards beneath them began shaking, buttons and switches moving of their own accord.

The last image that cropped up before the terminal shorted out was a silver sphere, bordered with three golden cuboids and bearing a lightning blue centre.

The Supercomputer's avatar.

As the restraints biting into Quarir's joints vanished into the chair, allowing him to ungraciously flop onto the cold tiled floor, he realised that Maintonon could obviously transmit to and manipulate his fellow machines as well as standard neurological minds. He also considered that, as well as having to explain things to Nuri, he was going to have to live with the idea that some interdimensional smartass was going to be screwing around with his destiny.

Since when did heroic types have to deal with that? It wasn't fair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Control and Escape**

"What the hell just happened?" Nuri gaped.

"Who knows? Malfunction. Yeah," Quarir babbled hastily, delaying an explanation for as long as physically possible. "Obviously. Come on!"

"But the door is still sealed!"

"Not for long. It'll probably go too. Yeah."

"What? It doesn't look like it's about to—"

"There we go," Nalore interrupted, gratefully diving out the room as the door jolted open with a shower of golden sparks. "Told you so. Just like when I was hitting those buttons, haha. Which, wait, means they were also… lucky coincidence. Haha." He sounded manic.

Nuri, nevertheless, followed him. "Look, Quarir, what's going—?"

"Who knows? I damn well don't. I never do! Let's just go in here, shall we?"

Nuri examined the door that had opened for Quarir as if he'd been a Combine officer and not an extraterrestrial trespasser. Rather than being a native door with an added magseal, it was yet another of the hulking alloy hatches that the Combine used to seal off their most important property. The markings above it reminded her of the storeroom back at the City 11 Town Hall.

"This is an armoury?" she asked aloud, already knowing the answer, which was just as well as Quarir gave no indication that he'd even heard her.

The walls were lined with the utilitarian weapon racks that the Overwatch favoured. Each and every one of them was stocked with a pulse rifle. Ammunition practically overflowed from sizeable wall sconces, and the mounted medical units that the CPs interfaced with in case of injury were in abundance.  _The place is a goldmine,_  she thought hungrily.  _I just wish we'd found somewhere like this before they broke up the cell back home…_

But Nalore ignored the amassed equipment, heading straight for a small table surrounded by freakish machinery and serpentine cables. A dim ceiling light illuminated a shining object, about a cubit long. And there was good reason for that, because as she approached, Nuri realised it  _was_  a cubit.

"That's the Zealot's arm!" she exclaimed in disgust.

"Nah, there's nothing inside the gauntlet," Quarir assured her, although he still peered inside it to check. "Either it vaporized along with him or he decomposes real quick or the Combine scraped all the flesh out—"

"Stop that! Urrgh. What could you possibly want it for?"

"Because," Nalore said, circling around the complex examination table in an effort to find an opening, "it's a psionic amplifier. You saw what he did with it!"

"Yes," Nuri acknowledged, shuddering at the memory. "But it's an  _amplifier_ , so doesn't that mea—  _what the hell are you doing_?"

"What?" Nalore said irritably, tentatively poking the gauntlet and its attached bracer.

"Isn't there a security system or something?" Nuri asked, baffled at how easily Quarir had removed the only Arcadimaarian test sample on Earth.

"The amplifier's got no self defence mechanism, it would've died with the Zealot. They're linked, you know," he explained sagely.

"I  _meant_  that Combine scanner," Nuri continued tiredly. "How come it doesn't care that you've removed it?"

"Oh," Quarir stopped in his tracks, conceding that she had a point, "Well…"

The alarm went off again, the siren returning to its wailing with its usual gusto. Nuri looked on in abject horror as the alluring racks, every single one of them, locked down, vanishing into the impenetrable walls alongside the recharger units and the medical stations.

"Oh, thanks a lot!" she bellowed. "Those would've been really— what the…?"

Wondering what could have possibly distracted her from her favourite hobby of Quarir-baiting, the Domarian swivelled round. She was staring, in surprised delight, at a second examination counter.

"My .357! What the hell is that doing here?"

"They must've thought it was special since  _he_  had it," Nalore sniffed. He wasn't entirely sure why the antiquated revolver was so precious to her.

Nuri eagerly grabbed the firearm and cradled it emotionally.

Nalore rolled his eyes. "Oh for the love of... marry it later, we're in a hurry! Let's go!"

Flushing, Nuri hurriedly holstered the gun. " _You_  wanted to stop here," she said accusingly.

"Hey, I just grabbed this amplifier," Quarir said, steadily jogging alongside her as they made their way through the former-government-owned office block, "I'm not planning to sleep with it. We're not that attached, but man, maybe with some work, this glove and me might have an enduring relationship..."

Nuri ground her teeth. "If you don't learn how to blow up buildings with that thing," she said warningly, "I swear I'm going to shoot you."

"You already did."

"Next time I'll keep trying until it sticks."

"Touché."

* * *

"How come all the doors are still open?" Nuri asked Quarir, knowing full well that he'd either rebuff her or claim ignorance.

"Must've blown a fuse," he said vaguely.

"It's just that the racks back at the armoury sealed up when the alarm started, but none of the doors have shut."

"Maybe the Combine just have shit security systems," Nalore muttered, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he moved forward. "How should I know?"

"Wait," Nuri shouted suddenly, dashing forward to stop him, "I think that's a—"

"What?" he asked irritably, negligently passing his foot through a low-lying beam of light.

A different alarm sounded briefly, and two suspiciously large tiles on either side of the exit shot upward, exposing the mounted guns beneath them. For a millisecond they did little more than project a cone of pale light towards the two escapees, but then they shuddered into action and began pouring pulse rounds towards the pair.

Fortunately Nuri had some experience with Combine defensive systems, and thus she'd managed to pull Quarir to safety behind the baroque outcropping that bordered two tall windows.

The sentry guns let loose another deafening salvo, as if they making doubly sure that their target had been eliminated, and then went deathly silent.

Holding the miffed Quarir back (because she was absolutely convinced he would do something as stupid as triggering the turrets again) Nuri slowly leant around the edge of their shelter, prepared, at any time, to dive backwards to avoid another burst of fire.

Although the turrets hadn't retreated back into their departments beneath the floor, they still appeared to be active; their sensor beams patiently combed the tiles ahead of them, waiting for something to kill.

"Damn," she swore under her breath, "I don't know how we're going to get past."

There was a jarringly loud smashing sound, followed by the unmistakable tingling of falling glass. She turned round, horrified— but not surprised— to find that Quarir had smashed the delicate window to pieces, resourcefully using the Arcadimaarian gauntlet to cushion his hand from the impact.

"We've got to get out of here sometime," he said by way of explanation, "won't be long before those Elites get back." With that, he threw himself through the jagged opening, conveniently clearing away the remaining fragments of razor-sharp glass.

After a small intermission, there was a thud, and a shocked grunt.

"We're on the first floor," Nuri called down.

"Yeah, I just realised," Quarir replied hazily, "but this rib was already broken, no problem…"

"Are you really all right?"

"Yeah, of course. C'mon down, I'll catch you!"

"If you're sure…"

"Hey, I've already broken everything else, breaking your fall won't be any trouble."

Nuri did not suffer from vertigo but she decided, there and then, that she'd just diagnosed herself with the first recorded case of being-caught-by-Quarir-phobia. But it was either that or waiting for the Combine to kill her, and so she steadied herself and jumped—

—and landed heavily, managing to twist her ankle.

She gritted her teeth as she tried to concentrate on anything other than the wrenched joint such as why the hell Nalore hadn't lived up to his promise. There was an acid remark on her lips when she looked up from her foot… and found Quarir wrestling with a headcrab.

If the creature in question hadn't been a brain-dissolving body-controlling parasite, it might have been a comical sight. The small creature— who possessed four sharp, clawed feet and a flesh tone not dissimilar to a roast chicken— was doing an admirable job of grappling with Quarir, who was uttering a constant stream of profanity while the 'crab squeaked and chirruped urgently.

Eventually Nalore managed to disentangle himself from the Xenian, and he flung it as far as he could. It landed on its back, but righted itself quickly, and then slowly but frantically began crawling back towards him, front claws waving in the air as it dragged itself along on its back legs.

"Shoot the thing!" he urged Nuri. "Urrgh."

She needed no second bidding. She took aim with her revolver, and her first shot hit home, flipping the parasite's pitiful corpse skyward with a spray of oily blood.

Quarir shuddered again. "Sorry about your landing."

"It's okay. It's barely sprained, I can still walk."

"Good, because there are more of the things," Quarir informed her.

"I can see that."

The allotment to the rear of the ex-government facility was a vast expanse of concrete, although it was difficult to tell whether it was a parking lot, a reclaimed town green or the site of a now-demolished building. Refuse of all kinds, from burnt out cars to piles of plastic gunk, filled the area. Everywhere around them the headcrabs were steadily working their way between the heaps of garbage.

"I've only got five rounds left now," Nuri announced depressingly, "and it'd be a waste to spend them on headcrabs."

"Agreed," Quarir nodded, opening the unresisting boot of an immolated car. "Need to improvise! Ah, perfect."

The boot contained a lump of ash and malformed rubber that might've once been documentation and a flashlight…. and a rusty, but intact, tyre iron.

"What about that glove of yours?"

"It's damn uncomfortable, and this isn't the best time to try it out," Quarir confessed, bundling the jangling mess up and hanging it off his belt.

"You'll be attracting 'crabs for miles with all that noise."

"Hey, better that they jump out than lurk around waiting for us to turn our ba—"

"Gragaaahhh!"

Quarir's heart leapt into his throat and he quickly dispatched the zombie, fear lending weight to his already formidable blows. It sunk to the floor, several dents in the 'crab clamped across its rotting skull.

"We have  _got_  to get out of here!"

"There are scanners, keep down!" Nuri hissed.

They lay beneath a corroded van for a minute, waiting for the three humming sentry drones to move on, gaining height to soar above the office block.

Quarir brushed himself off and snorted. "Why would they be scanning a shithole like this?"

"This was a Resistance base," Nuri murmured. She bent down to the odorous corpse of the zombie: a brightly-painted lambda was on the former citizen's arm. "That's why they set up that headquarters nearby, and why there are headcrabs everywhere. They infested this place and then forgot about it."

"The Combine does that…?"

"They use the 'crabs as biological weapons. Zombies are a lot less dangerous than armed, loyal rebels, but even then they declare a cull every month or so. Keeps the 'crab population down, and eventually all the zombies and Resistance members get killed off."

"Pretty damn good siege weapon, then."

"It's sickening," she scolded him.

"That too. So there's an old base somewhere amongst all this crap?"

"Somewhere, yes," Nuri scanned the acre-or-so of debris. "But it'll either be stripped bare or packed full of zombies."

"Likely to be a lot of ammo inside, right?" Quarir said, licking his lips. "Lots of unneeded supplies and probably a tunnel network…"

"Have you got a plan?"

"Well, no. But checking out this base, even if it's empty and full of our mutant chum's family, is  _probably_  better than trying to go round the front. I reckon the Elites will be back by now."

"You've got a point, but the entrance is likely to be hidden."

"Gra-gaaah! Hurrghh!" cried some distant monstrosity.

"We just follow the screams. More zombies closer to the entrance, right?"

"Maybe you're right…"

"Plus, it'll get us away from the three behind me. Let's go."


	11. Chapter 11

**Forbidden District**

Quarir was relieved when they found the trapdoor; because, for all his bravado, he'd actually suspected that Nuri would be proved right and that they'd have wandered the labyrinthine junk yard for days in a futile effort to find the abandoned Resistance base. They'd encountered a few more zombies and headcrabs and his tyre iron was now positively slick with yellow blood but his hunch seemed to have paid off.

"This door isn't necessarily anything to do with the Resistance," Nuri mused, echoing the concerns that Quarir had secretly harboured. "It might just be an underground storeroom, or a plumbing access point."

"I doubt it," Nalore declared smugly, "because right here, there's that Resistance symbol."

"Right where?"

"Here."

"Oh, you mean on the pickup truck that's sat on top of the trapdoor."

Nalore shrugged sheepishly; it genuinely hadn't occurred to him that the marked automobile was in fact blocking the theoretical entrance.

But he soon perked up. "You're forgetting who you've got with you," he declared smolderingly. He began to limber up, and cracked his knuckles theatrically.

"You  _love_  the whole macho thing, don't you?"

"Ah, you love it too, don't deny it." Quarir positioned himself behind the truck, winked at her, and then pushed.

The muscles on his arms bulged out of his skin, and one of his eyes started to twitch. "Guh," he ventured. He carried on, even though he could literally hear the fibre-bundle implants in his biceps creak. "Urgh," he added.

"I hate to interrupt your intensive hernia-farming," Nuri grinned nastily, "but look at the gear stick."

"What… urgh… about it?" Quarir panted.

"This is an old, scorched truck, but the gear stick looks brand new by comparison."

"And that's… gah… important why?"

Nuri rolled her eyes, leaned through the glassless window, and pulled the lever all the way back.

The truck lurched forward and Quarir fell flat on his face. He looked up from the asphalt and saw the vehicle's wheels turning rapidly. A mechanism with clanking chains forcibly towed it across a stretch of tarmac that was, now that Quarir bothered to look at it, marked with streaks of rubber and suspiciously free of obstruction.

"Okay. I'll let you have that one." He picked the grit off his nose and made a face. "Hey," he blurted in sudden realisation, a thought striking him almost as hard as the ground had, "this is tar. The outskirts were concrete."

"You've certainly had a close inspection to confirm that."

"You know what I mean! This little patch in the centre is tarmac, why?"

"The Resistance,  _if_  this is their base," she added speedily, "probably had something to do with that."

"Maybe, although I don't know why the Combine haven't found this yet," Quarir murmured, getting onto his hands and knees and lifting the exposed trapdoor open. "Why was that truck back in place? Man, now you've got me as paranoid as you."

A spindle-legged headcrab chose that tactful moment to leap out of the shaft in a spirited attempt to latch onto Quarir's skull. It missed, but only through its own misfortune rather than Nalore's reactions. It flew past his head and into the bonnet of a crumpled sports car.

"What the hell was that?!" Quarir let out a whimper, spinning to face the creature, the bloody tyre iron raised high.

The long-limbed parasite moved far faster then its chubbier cousin. It emerged from the engine in an explosion of bolts and rust. Like some sort of bizarre batsman, Quarir caught the flying beast a heavy blow in mid air, and it hurtled backwards, wetly striking the side of a sludge-filled skip. It slid to the floor, convulsing, and then went still.

"Thanks for the help," Nalore snapped, looking at the vanquished alien with distaste. "What  _was_  it?"

"We call it a 'fast headcrab', and you seemed to handle it just fine by yourself. I need to save our ammo, and like you said, I just love watching you in action."

"Funny. And 'fast headcrab'… you guys are imaginative." Quarir stiffened. "Hang on, there aren't 'fast zombie' varieties, are there?"

The ladder leading down from the trapdoor began rattling violently, and a bloodcurdling howl split the air. And more followed.

"Oh, god," Nuri breathed. "You just had to say it. Seal it! There must be dozens down there!"

Quarir ran to the truck—

—and one shot rang out. A massive bullet hole appeared in the metal of its chassis, mere inches from his torso, and he stopped in his tracks.

Laser sights, too many to count, were emanating from the looming Combine HQ and covering the surrounding area in flickering dots of blue light.

The two of them dived for cover, just as the first two zombies emerged from the trapdoor, clawing at the air and screaming horribly.

* * *

The resulting pandemonium was expected. Robbed of their main objectives, the accumulated snipers turned their attentions to the gibbering zombies, and the rotting, scrawny creatures were ripped to shreds by an ear-splitting barrage of high-calibre pulse rounds.

But their place was taken by two more. And then another pair. And another.

A single shot from one of the sniper's rifles literally tore one of the abominations in half, but they appeared too quickly for the slow-firing gunmen to deal with.

 _Not that organised after all,_  Quarir thought, because half-decent riflemen would've conserved their rounds, instead of pouring massed fire at lone targets that didn't warrant it.

Of course that left him with a problem. He and Nuri were separated by a throng of at least ten (intact) monstrosities, their only means of escape was probably filled with more of them, and an entire squadron of elite (or not so elite) snipers were on hand to ventilate them.

So if they moved, they'd either be eaten alive, shot to pieces, or both.

Quarir decided that that'd be an interesting prospect, because presumably they'd have to be eaten alive  _before_  being shot to pieces...

"I'm going to make a run for it!" Nuri shouted over the mêlée, rousing Nalore from his macabre reverie.

To Quarir's horror, Nuri sprinted from behind the rundown sports car, heading straight for the potential safety of the trapdoor. One of the zombies noticed Nuri's dash and leapt towards her, but a white-hot pulse round intended for her forehead flashed down and split the headcrab atop the animated corpse. It went limp, tumbling into the shaft like some farcical rag doll.

There was a resounding clang as Nuri leapt feet first through the opening and hit the metal floor below. Spurred on by her success, Quarir tensed himself, squatting like a professional athlete, and prepared to follow her…

Nuri was waiting at the bottom of the ladder with a mixture of trepidation and elation when Quarir fell at her feet, a "fast" zombie scratching at his throat.

The creature was straddling him and trying to tear his face off, and although he was fighting it Nalore had no desire to reverse their positions, because the thought of lying on top of the thing made him feel physically sick…

Deciding that Quarir was having difficulties, Nuri took aim and fired twice in quick succession.

Nalore pushed the lifeless body away and got up. Neither said anything.

Then, staring at his shoulder as one might examine an unexpected grass stain, Quarir announced; "you shot me again."

"Well, I'm sorry, but it was either that or—"

"Graahh!"

"Garrhh!"

A zombie dropped down from the square of light above them just as another darted towards their position from the gloomy corridor. Nuri took aim and fired, sending the horror spiralling back into the shadows, and Quarir caught the second creature a hefty smack in the belly moments after it landed. It doubled over with a ghastly screech, and before it recovered he brained it forcibly with the other end of the tyre iron. It didn't get back up.

"I'm starting to like this thing," Quarir grinned, watching the blood drip off the implement with morbid fascination.

"I'm starting to wish we'd brought a torch," Nalore grimaced. "And stop doing that."

"Sorry."

"It's really dark and the last thing I want is for you to start watching blood trickle off your murder weapon. It's just creepy."

"I said sorry. Look, there's a light switch here…" Quarir slapped it with the palm of his hand.

There was a familiar clanging and rattling, and everything went dark. The carnage above them no doubt continued unabated, but they could no longer hear the guttural bawling of the aliens or the Combine's gunfire. Somehow, that was worse.

"That was the mechanism reset button," Nuri said flatly.

"Yeah, I guessed. Look, I'll just open it." Nalore hit the switch again. Nothing happened. He punched it so hard that the surrounding plaster splintered and fell away, and yet still nothing happened.

"We're sealed in the dark. Great."

"Ah-ha, no," Nalore declared exultantly, fiddling with something on his belt.

"Yes, we are."

"Well, yeah, but I can fix that," something jangled noisily as he gnawed his lower lip. "Hang on. Wait, it's not my size." More jangling. "Wait no, it's just on backwards. Right. There!"

"Do I  _want_  to know what you're doing?"

"It's damn hard to get it on in the dark, that's all. Bit of a tight fit… but I'm sure it'll work."

"Seriously, do I want to?"

Quarir held his hand up and flexed his fingers. He was wearing the Arcadimaarian's gilded amplifying gauntlet. "Right. Now…"

He held his hand out and concentrated. He promptly went cross-eyed.

"What are you trying to do?" Nuri asked him.

"Shhh," he hissed, and he went back to crossing his eyes. He winced and gritted his teeth, and his hand began shaking, rattling the shining device.

"Trying to retract the hernia you gave yourself a while back?"

"Urggh… there!"

"What?"

"The light! My finger's glowing! Look at that!"

"It is," Nuri admitted, "but it's not what I'd call bright."

"It's getting a bit stronger," Nalore said sulkily. "I don't see  _you_  focusing your psychic energies to light our way."

"Huhh-huhh- _VrrRAWL_!"

A .357 round downed the zombie before it even had time to move out of the shadows.

Nuri gave him a look. "But you  _do_  see me continuously saving our lives."

"Ah," Nalore declared boldly, waving the index finger that was tipped with the flickering orb, "but only because I'm lighting the way!"

"True. Let's carry on; you can be a big boy and hold the light, and I'll have to settle for killing all the horrible mutants that try and eat us."

* * *

The tiny sphere of light grew in intensity as they cautiously made their way down the dank corridor. As it brightened Quarir's headache worsened. It had started out being so mild that he was barely aware of its presence, but it was gradually reaching such a level of severity that he felt as if a porcupine had burrowed into his brain before starting to have an epileptic fit.

He wondered if it was always this bad, even for Arcadimaarians. It would explain why every Arc was a screwed-up mad bastard. Perhaps the amplifiers merely lessened the pain of their natural abilities, rather than lending them any extra clout. Either way they were undoubtedly the Arc equivalent of an army knife; their staple weapon  _and_  survival kit. Only Zealots had the gauntlet-forms in Quarir's experience. Most of the psychics favoured globe-shaped or staff-like devices.

And as for the Combine… well,  _the_  Combine had no real need for amplifiers. Take Advisors. Despite their feeble appearance they were immensely potent telepaths, although tended to use those abilities in a purely communicative capacity. Of course, their sheer willpower made them massively resistant to the psionic attacks favoured by the Arcadimaarians, and their Synth cohorts were similarly hardened against psi, what with having very little in common with most other life forms.

Couple this with the Combine's disturbing habit of teleporting fully-formed attack bases into the heart of populated areas, and you had a superpower that was feared— or at least immensely disliked— by the ancient Arc society.

Neither had truly faced the other yet, and that Combine Elite had proved it. They'd clashed over neutral worlds (or more accurately, worlds that were anything but neutral and that they were both trying to enslave) but they'd never actually faced each other in their respective home territories…

Quarir gritted his teeth, but it was no good. He could no longer ignore the fiery meteor rocketing around his skull. Accepting defeat, he tore the strangely-warm gauntlet off his hand, and the relief was so rapid that he let out a contented sigh.

Nuri looked over her shoulder to see what he was up to. "Oh," she said, sounding impressed, "you can take it off and it still keeps going?"

Nalore held the gauntlet up. The light was now emanating from all five fingers and showed no sign of fading. "Uh, yes," he said weakly, "you just need to concentrate to turn it on. What did you think I had to do? Fry my own brain just to keep it going? Ha. Ha."

The ever-sloping passageway finally reached something of interest. Wire-fronted rooms stretched its length for as far as they could see. Each was, unsurprisingly, derelict— the pair passed one full of unmarked crates, one with an upturned desk, one with shelves brimming with weapons, one with barrels of…

Quarir performed a text-book double take. He hadn't been mistaken. The room held a vast shelving unit populated with all manner of firearm. He may have been unfamiliar with this planet's technology, but the long-barrelled guns certainly looked potent.

"Nuri," he called after her, "come and look at this." Not waiting for his comrade to arrive, Nalore brought his tyre iron down hard on the armoury's door. To his amazement it simply swung open, but then again who would lock a door during a rapid evacuation?

He swaggered in and grabbed a polished armament. "Brilliant. What kind of gun is this?"

"A shotgun," Nuri said without giving it a second glance. "It's pellet based, and they spread out."

"Right, so it's like a scatter rifle. Okay."

Quarir fiddled with the shotgun for a moment, trying to figure out just how it was reloaded. He began grabbing as many 9mm clips and boxes of shells as he could carry as he really wasn't sure what the weapon fired and secretly hoped Nuri would intervene and explain things.

But Nuri was looking up at a colossal hole in the roof. Sunlight seeped through, glinting on the various implements of death. A hideous missile, all angled black metal and interlocking bars, was buried in the floor. It had taken away much of the adjoining wall as well as gouging a chunk out of the ceiling.

"I've found one of those 'biological siege weapons' you were so impressed by," Nuri announced disdainfully. "The Combine fills these with headcrabs and fires them into populated  _there's a headcrab on that shelf!_ "

Quarir reacted quickly, and the parasite's leap did little more than noisily dislodge the carefully arranged shotguns. It landed behind him, and began to ponderously turn around, but he trod on it, took aim… and pulled the trigger with nothing more harmful than a click racing out of his gun.

"Dammit," Quarir swore, and instead he had to settle for bashing the squirming critter to death with the stock of the weapon. "Hate guns without charge cores."

"If that had been loaded you'd have blown your foot off," Nuri snapped. "It fires  _lots_  of pellets, it's not a damn air gun!"

Quarir let the remark pass, because he also wasn't sure whether an air gun was real or some sort of Earth pantomime, like an air guitar. "What kind of headcrab was this?" he asked, using his boot to flip the dead alien onto its back.

Nuri knelt beside the corpse, and her eyebrows shot skyward. "This is a toxic variant, something we think the Combine might have created themselves, like the fast headcrabs." Quarir, who had been about to touch the black, slightly disc-shaped parasite, recoiled away from the cadaver.

"Euch. Do these ones also make zombies out of people, or do they just kill them?"

Nuri shook her head. "I haven't seen many of these, but I'm fairly certain they just bite people and let their venom do all the work."

"Right. Show me how to load the gun and we'll go on. I'll bet there's more of these things deeper inside."

"Probably," Nuri agreed unhappily. "I think this used to be an underground parking lot," she said conversationally, selecting a box of red 12 gauge shells, "and somehow the Resistance cell here found time enough to tar up some of the car ramps, so they could hide easier. Now, watch…"

Quarir took note of how Nuri loaded the weapon, and after her instruction he felt he could do it competently, if not as well as Nuri with her fluid, accustomed motions.

"There're no .357 rounds in here," she sighed, after a brief inspection of the shelves. "I really need a reload."

Nuri was about to leave via the door when Quarir stopped her. "Let's try the hole in the wall," he suggested. But, again, he went through without even waiting for her response. She had half a mind to shoot the twerp in the arm again, but she didn't want to waste her precious ammunition.

Quarir came back at high speed, because he'd been hurled backward. He smashed through the disintegrating wall and into the shelf, which toppled over, spilling several guns onto the floor.

There were shuffling footsteps, and eager, breathy noises.

A massive, bloated freak covered in the squeaking, beetle-like poison headcrabs staggered into view.

On sensing Nuri, it made a noise that she could only describe as laughter.

* * *

Quarir retrieved the shotgun, took aim, and fired. Nothing happened. "Wrong beffing one!" he swore, selecting a choice sample from his multilingual arsenal of profanities. He threw the weapon away and began scrabbling amongst its fellows, desperately trying to find the gun that Nuri had loaded earlier.

Nuri was only dimly aware of Quarir's frantic search; she had more pressing matters on her mind, like the inflated monster shuffling towards her. She squeezed her revolver's trigger, firing again and again and suddenly recalled, just as she sent her last bullet speeding into the zombie, that there was no more ammunition available for it. She cast the .357 aside and, taking a more proactive stance than Quarir, she grabbed a dry shotgun and hurriedly began to load it.

But she'd perforated one of the many headcrabs latched onto the former human, and the thing silently fell from its tumescent host. Apparently unfazed, the ex-rebel reached down with its swollen arms and plucked a 'crab from off its own body, then reared back and threw it towards them.

The shotgun was sent spinning out of Nuri's hands, the toxic, living projectile clamping onto the firearm in a futile attempt to infest it. She backed away, and her foot got caught between two of the fallen shelves; she stumbled, hitting her head on one of the unit's hard wooden ridges.

The impact dizzied her, and as the zombie approached, forever gurgling and chuckling, she became acutely aware of its purplish, tumid flesh, its grossly distended stomach, its outreaching hands…

Quarir gave up trying to find the right shotgun, and instead smashed his tyre iron over the headcrab sitting on the obese abomination's head. The zombie batted him aside effortlessly.

Nuri's empty .357 was the only weapon within her reach. Her hand clamped around it instinctively, sending the firing chamber flopping open, and then, inexplicably, it  _wasn't_  empty. With a flash of light, six fresh rounds sat within the gun, which closed up of its own accord.

Her drive for survival overcame her shocked disbelief, spurring her into action. Three bullets all found their target, and with a piteous moan the zombie buckled, its skin slick with dark blood.

The four remaining headcrabs disconnected from the falling mutant, and they acted quickly, forever driven to find fresh hosts. But so did their would-be victims.

Quarir took one down, leaping to his feet and smashing his iron upwards in a single fluid motion. Another splattered as a .357 round found its mark, and a third met a similar fate in midair.

But the third smacked into Nalore's leg with a wet, squelching sound. Shrugging off the impact, Quarir battered the organism to death.

Nuri spied the last headcrab. It was still on the shotgun, biting it in total disregard of its inanimate nature. Toying with the notion of a zombie shotgun, she blasted the surprised parasite away.

Holding the Magnum at arms length, she flipped it open. For a moment nothing happened, and she wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing despite the stinking corpse to the contrary. But then the sidearm vibrated slightly, an inner glow radiating from the six chambers, and, in yet another audacious example of reality-defiance, the pistol reloaded itself from out of nothing.

"Did you see…?" she began in astonishment.

"Yeah. Looks like our Arc buddy changed it to suit his needs." Nalore confirmed, as if it was the most mundane thing he'd ever seen happen. "Arcs can infuse their weapons with psi-driven nanotech. I reckon that's one of a kind. An infinity projectile-launcher! Could be the next big thing."

"You don't think he might have—" Nuri looked down. All worries regarding her unique pistol swamped by another issue. "Is your leg all right?"

Quarir followed her gaze. The limb was noticeably fatter than before. "Well," he hazarded, "it does feel kind of hot. And throbby." And with those words, he collapsed.

Nuri dashed forward to support him, gently lowering the surprisingly heavy man to the ground. She rolled up his trouser leg, tearing it in her haste, and the sight that greeted her made her retch.

Quarir groggily looked at his own leg, which he could no longer feel. The calf was ballooning before their eyes, taking on the same purple tone that distinguished the zombie.

"Oh crap," he slurred, toxin-driven fatigue numbing his brain.

Nuri had some knowledge of medicine, but even in this day and age she wasn't sure what to do to combat the venom of a poisonous headcrab, and she said as much. "I don't know what we're meant to do, but I could maybe try and find something for it…" she offered, in an attempt to be supportive.

"You got a knife?"

"Yes, I've got a penknife…"

"Good," Nalore nodded. "Give it to me, and then try to find a medkit. Anything. If they've… ack… got an armoury they'll have a medbay. Well, no, that's wrong. I  _hope_  they've got a medbay."

Nuri obligingly pulled the tiny blade from out of her boot, and, despite being disturbingly aware of Quarir's intentions, she handed it to him.

Nuri vanished through the door and Quarir braced himself- he knew what he had to do, and if he didn't do it the consequences would be far worse. He was a bion, he knew that, but even if he was twice as resilient as a "normal" man it still might not save him. Who was to say that this poison couldn't kill someone ten times over?

And so, with fingers that trembled more from the onset of the dead headcrab's venomous payload than fear, he flicked the blade out, and stabbed it deep into his leg.

He felt nothing, which was somehow worse than the agony he'd been expecting. He slowly slit the swelling, watching the putrescent mixture of liquids seep out of the wound.

The gunk smelled horribly similar to the dead zombie, but as it poured out of the lanced abscess his leg began to hurt... which was, in all probability, a good sign.

Nuri came back into the room, looking anxious.

"That was fast," said Quarir.

But he noticed that she didn't have a Combine medkit or medicinal alcohol or even a roll of gauze, and he was about to ask her why.

However a mad-eyed man with an assault rifle stepped in after her, which was self explanatory.


	12. Chapter 12

**Janitor**

"Trespassing, y'know?" Keith informed them, "Can't allow that."

The guy looked about sixty, but that didn't mean much. Nalore considered this and realised that, since this wasn't Ucelsia, it meant that people who looked sixty  _would_  be sixty. This planet, at least, didn't have augmented octogenarians walking around and managing to pass themselves off as teenagers. Which Quariar had always thought was kind of creepy, come to think of it.

"I've been 'ere since day one," Keith continued conversationally, "Always work like clockwork. Even those kids didn't git in my way. Or the junkies, poor sods."

Keith mumbled on and Quarir lay back and sighed. The man had, at first, been overtly suspicious and threatening but through a series of one-sided conversations he'd gradually convinced himself that Nalore and Nuri weren't hostile. He'd introduced himself as Keith, Grounds Supervisor of the Fruotech Plaza Parking Facility, and then after that he'd calmly told them that they were trespassing on private property.

"We'd be quite happy to leave," Nuri said for the fourth time. "Maybe you could point out the exit?"

Keith chuckled. "Y' got in, y' must know how you can get out."

"I meant if there were other exits," she explained slowly and patiently. "It's a bit… hectic, up top."

"Oh, aye, there plenty o' o'er ways out," Keith responded in an equally patronising manner, "But they be in restricted areas. Can't let you in 'em. High security."

Nuri held her head in her hands. "Give me strength…"

Quarir shuffled forward in an attempt to make himself a bit more comfortable. "Look Keith. We're both tired, I'm poisoned, and we're on the run from the Combine. You can't tell me that-"

Keith slapped his own forehead. "Combine! O' course. Still trying to takeover the place?"

"What?"

"They put a bid in y'know," Keith continued angrily, "but the manager said he wouldn't sell to no for-in company. But the Combine wouldn't take the hint! Next thing I know,  _wham_ , 'ostile takeover, place goes bankrupt, and all these kids start squatting, but they was nice enough. Junkies turned up later. Some of them were right bastards."

Quarir realised he was in the presence of someone who was even less informed than he was. "Uh, Keith, you do know that—"

"Here's a hint, Quarir," Nuri told him quickly, "maybe let the man with the M16 dictate the pace of the conversation, okay?" She turned back to the grimacing janitor. "Yes, that's quite right sir," she continued more audibly, "we're just lost our own corner shop to the Combine. Evicted us, after they bought the place off the landowner."

"Oh, poor ol' you," Keith said with genuine sympathy. "Barstards, I said it, I'll say it again."

"And then my partner here got sick and we couldn't afford to go to the private clinic," Nuri said, her bottom lip quivering histrionically, "and now we just go from place to place trying to find somewhere to spend the night…"

"Oh, I know the feeling gel. Bunch of idiots in offices ruining lives." Keith rubbed his chin. "All right I can get the two of ye into the generator room and from there you can get to the subway. Nice little shortcut."

"That'd be  _very_  kind of you," Nuri said sweetly.

"Follow me now. Y'better be able t' keep up."

Keith tottered off in the peculiar shamble that only old men seemed able to master, muttering all the while about bureaucrats and insensitive corporations.

"He's very, um, interesting, isn't he?" Nuri giggled. "Do you need a hand, by the way…?"

"No, I'm fine," Quarir grunted, hauling himself up and using his shotgun as an improvised crutch. "But I don't think  _he_  is. Foreign companies and junkies? Doesn't even know there's a damn alien invasion—"

"In a small way, perhaps that's for the best. The reality of the situation might just make his health even worse."

"Hey, lovebirds! C'mon!"

They ran (or at least hobbled quickly) to a massive door that Keith was struggling to hold open. Once they were past it, the caretaker let it slam shut, and Nalore took one look at the vault-like gate and realised why the old fool had managed to live for so long. The security hatch was made of inches-thick steel, and even the most corpulent poison zombie couldn't have made a dent in it.

"Tis a door," Keith offered, as if communing with an idiot, "don't need to stare at it."

Quarir muttered something that neither Keith or Nuri caught, but it certainly wasn't complimentary.

Whatever Fruotech had dealt with, they must have maintained their facility well. All the heavily labelled pipes and cables, the emergency lights on every surface, the massive security door… it was easy to see why the Resistance had claimed it as a base.

The corridor opened out into a large engine room. From the mixture of valves and wires, Quarir decided it was probably some sort of boiler-cum-power plant.

"He's kept it working all this time," Nuri said, "that's a lot of work."

Nalore just sniffed. He could hear the hiss of steam, the hum of electricity, the trundling of… well, some sort of rotating thingy. Everything might have been functional, but, based on the ramshackle appearance of the equipment, Keith must have long since resorted to salvaging parts from the surface to keep his precious machines going. The idea of pressurised water and high-voltage lines in one room made Quarir shudder.

"I'd love t' offer you tea or coffee or summit," Keith lied happily, "but I have to keep an eye on t' ol' boilers. Help y'self to anything in the cupboards on the way out."

"Thank you!" Nuri called out loudly. Keith nodded in recognition, then sat down on an overstuffed mattress in the corner and proceeded to read a decades-old newspaper. It crumbled at his touch, but Keith didn't seem to mind.

"Right, let's get out of here," Quarir said once they were out of earshot. "All the burbling is getting to me. And I mean him, not the pipes."

"He's probably been here since the Combine invaded," Nuri said, disapproving of Nalore's attitude towards the elderly, "I bet you wouldn't have an easy time of it either. And if he hadn't been here, well, good luck getting past the security door to this."

Nuri indicated a bold red line painted on the floor, with "EXIT" written across it in block capitals. They followed the fading guideline through the maze of shuddering and hissing apparatus, occasionally backtracking once or twice before realising that Keith had renewed it wrongly at some point. Eventually, they reached a thin door with "OUT" scrawled over its splintering wood. Quarir gently pushed it open.

The room beyond was a courtyard of sorts with a massive broken skylight as a centrepiece.

"He's growing crops," Nalore clicked his tongue. "I'll admit that that's fairly resourceful."

"We don't know if it was him or the Resistance," Nuri pointed out. "Although if they're still here he must have kept them going. I guess he needs to eat  _something_."

The four raised plots had once been flowerbeds, but over the years they'd been converted into vegetable patches. Yellowing lettuce, malformed carrots, bulbous things that were probably meant to be potatoes... but as amateurish as the developing harvest might have looked, it was no doubt edible enough to keep Keith going.

"Now, where are those cupboards?" Nuri asked herself.

"Oh, come  _on_. They'll be filled with tentacled radishes or something. Let's just find the subway— oh."

"Why oh?" Nuri turned, and saw. " _Oh._ "

The large passageway leading away from the makeshift farm was, indeed, labelled "Subway", so Keith had got that right. However, it was completely blocked by tons of fallen rock; girders criss-crossed the heap, adding further impediments to an already insurmountable obstruction.

"Well, damn," said Nalore, who lacked anything better to say.

"I guess the Combine shelling must have collapsed it," Nuri said, sighing dejectedly.

"Actually it always been like that. I think old demolition work."

Quarir and Nuri spun round. A tall, bearded man, a scrawny youngster and a Vortigaunt were all looking at them quizzically.

"I'm Dmitri," said Dmitri. "What can we do for you?"

* * *

The introductions were made quickly and smoothly (discounting Quarir wondering which of the Vortigaunt's three hands to shake: they eventually settled for a friendly exchange of nods).

Dmitri was a tall, muscular man, and it was blatantly obvious from his mannerisms and stance that he was ex-army material. His beard made his age indeterminable, but he possessed an incredible presence. And enough body hair to keep a small bear warm.

His gangly colleague was another story. Charlie put Nuri in mind of Quarir, except shorter, younger, and tortured by the lingering invasion force of acne. His hair was auburn, greasy, and of a style and length that was part hippy, part tramp.

"So you come here all the time, even after the infestation?" Nuri asked the hulking Russian conversationally.

"Keith is still here, and he's a good man," Dmitri said charitably, "But he's old, and needs help. He's been here since company started up."

"Explains a lot," Quarir accepted, taking a bite out of a soil-sheathed carrot and sitting on the wall of the adapted flowerbed.

"I never really met the guy," said Charlie. "Didn't this place get closed down or something?"

"That is correct," the 'Gaunt croaked suddenly. "He defends this place with great skill and passion, for he still believes it to be his lifelong supplier of sustenance."

"Well, he did seem convinced that the Combine was just a big conglomerate mounting a takeover." Nuri nodded.

"Yes. Before 7-Hour War, this place was in process of being bought by much bigger company," Dmitri recounted, sadly indicating their aging surroundings, "I think Keith was already… going. So when the Combine invaded he got confused."

"He saw the Resistance as friendly squatters," Charlie grinned. "God knows what the mad idiot thought the zombies were."

"Drug addicts," said Dmitri. "And shut up. He does good job. Although I don't know where he found all his weapons."

"Thinking of weapons," Quarir said, scoffing the last of his earthy carrot, "do you think he'd mind if we took a few supplies? It's just that we—"

"Quarir!" Nuri interrupted, shocked. "I think taking the carrot was a step too far as it is."

"Oh, no, Keith always welcomes us helping selves to the cupboard." Dmitri assured her. "We drop off spares here, pick up things for emergency, we do all sorts. It is a useful cache."

"Ah, I wondered why you'd taken us this way," said Charlie. "Thought you'd got lost."

Dmitri gave Charlie a look that passed all language barriers, and beckoned for Quarir to follow him. The Vortigaunt slowly paced after them.

Nuri watched them go. Charlie ignored them, and moved further up the wall so that he was sitting slightly too close to her.

"Sooo," he began, "where you from?"

"City 11," Nuri said stiffly.

"What was that like?"

"It was a hellhole, and a day ago the Combine blew it up."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be. Plenty of Combine died too. Quite horribly. I watched."

"Okay, uh… I'm just going to stand over there." Charlie scurried away, much to Nuri's relief.

Nuri removed her bobble hat and shook her hair out. She was starting to smell like Quarir. Not that she'd ever intentionally smelled him.

At the far wall of the colossal lobby, Dmitri rummaged through an arrangement of small cupboards. It was no doubt a search that was performed systematically, but from Quarir's viewpoint it seemed as if he was just emptying them, randomly throwing objects over his shoulder or piling them up next to him.

"What do you want?" Dmitri asked offhandedly.

"Oh, we'd just like to see what weapons or supplies you've got," Nalore said casually.

"I meant you. Your race. Pyotr told me about you."

Nalore gaped. "What? Who is Pyotr?"

"Pyotr is Dmitri's name for me," the Vort said softly. "We do not see the same need for individual or audible names as you do, as we are innately aware of each others location and identity. And their pains."

"Uh, yeah," Quarir said uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head, "sorry about your friend…"

"Tell me, did the killer meet a justified end? We would have closure."

"Well, I guess so. This Combine guy vaporized him with one of those bouncy orbs of light…"

"A quick and intensely painful experience. A deserved fate."

"Not to interrupt," Dmitri rumbled, "but you have not answered question."

"Did, uh, Pyotr tell you about my people? And about the Supercomputer?"

"A bit, yes."

"Then this should be easy enough to understand. The Combine threaten us too, and I'm here to disrupt them and engage in reconnaissance." Quarir winced inwardly. That wasn't entirely true. But even  _he_  didn't totally understand Maintonon's plan.

"Who was this 'killer'?" Dmitri asked, still suspicious.

"A Zealot," Quarir began, aware that Dmitri, augmentations or no, could probably have torn him in half if he felt the need. "An assassin belonging to yet another species that wants to kill us."

"Quarir speaks true," Pyotr nodded solemnly. "Our brethren at Colony 351 report that the Arcadimaarian humanoids are very hostile."

"Yeah, about that, how the  _hell_  can you guys be on Colony 351—?"

"Your two species look human? And speak language?" Dmitri stopped his pretence of looking for supplies and faced Quarir. "Convenient. Why?"

"We're not sure," Quarir admitted, "we just think we have a common ancestor. Both evolving from monkeys, or whatever. Same as why we look like your species."

"Identical? I do not think so."

"We're from a different dimension, okay?" Quarir said exasperatedly. "I don't get it either. Maybe our planets are really, really alike and evolution took the same path. I don't know. But I can speak— what is it? English?— because of my bionetwork chip."

Dmitri nodded, as if he could accept this one fact. "Yes, Pyotr told me about your implants. Can you understand all languages?"

"Um, I don't think so," Quarir began awkwardly. He hated discussing his bionics, it always made him feel queasily aware of his artificial innards. "If two people with bionetwork chips talk, they can translate anything. But because you guys don't have them, I'm locked to one language. I  _think_  I'm speaking Domarian, but it's actually coming out as English. Same when I hear you two speak."

"Is it reversible?"

"I damn well hope so," Nalore declared uneasily. The thought had never crossed his mind before…

Dmitri nodded, apparently satisfied at long last. "Right," he said, closing the cupboard and gathering up the sizeable heap that he'd accumulated, "bread, water, lot of vegetables, dried fish, dried... animal, and a little vodka. And mushrooms."

"Many of my kind are partial to them," said Pyotr, even though no one had asked.

"You take some of these," Dmitri ordered, offering Quarir two unmarked boxes. "And don't let Charlie know. It would confuse him. This Nuri knows what you are?"

"Who  _I_  am," Nalore corrected with just a smidgen of anger. "And yes, she does. But I take it you'd find it easier if she didn't know that you knew that she knows from what Pyotr knew about me?"

"Put simple, yes." Dmitri gathered the sizeable leftovers of the supplies and forcibly shoved them into his rucksack. "Now let's move before we disturb Keith. He get grouchy."

"I thought you had weapons here…?"

"As did I. But there are none left here. We will have to search elsewhere."

"Agreed," Pyotr bowed his head in concurrence. "I will escort you on your journey. My post no longer requires guarding. The Free Man has returned. The Combine's reckoning has come."

It occurred to Quarir that both Dmitri and Pyotr talked remarkably similarly, both having to work with foreign tongues. No wonder they got along so well.

They walked back to Nuri and Charlie. "So who is this Freeman guy?" Quarir asked, certain that he'd heard that name before.

"He is legend," Dmitri said, awe seeping into his words. "But unlike legend, he really exist. And there no gods in togas bossing him around."


	13. Chapter 13

**A Free Man**

When Dmitri had told him they'd be heading towards the canals, Quarir hadn't been sure what to expect. Canals in Ucelsia were one of two things; subterranean sewer passages riddled with all manner of aging purification system, or majestic stretches of sparkling water for the upper-class to mess about on.

But City 17's canals were garbage-filled ruts trickling through the artificial canyons that crisscrossed the metropolis. The water itself was a dirty, mostly shallow liquid, dominated by silt and dark materials that Quarir tried not to think about. Mounds of earth, rusted cars (of which the City seemed to possess an unlimited supply) and even freight containers littered the bed of the disused channels.

Fortunately their guides seemed quite content to circumvent the dirty waters. The dried mud on their clothing was testament to their earlier expedition, as they detailed…

"I wasn't much of a Resistance member," Charlie explained en route, "until one day I got left behind by my team. Next thing I knew I was on the run, some CPs capture me, then Dmitri rescues me, and then next thing we're breaking this Nunez guy out of their jail…"

"He an old friend," Dmitri added.

"And just when I think I was headed back for the quiet life, the Combine stepped up their attacks. Yesterday a damn Strider came along and blew the hell out of my home base. Bumped into Dmitri again, and he leads me through the canals, we meet Pyotr, and then we go see Keith. And that's about it."

"Similar thing happened to us," Nuri shrugged in sympathy. "Had to move on from City 11, it was either that or die, and we reached here by being stowaways on a train. Wasn't too eventful a journey."

"Um, yeah," Quarir agreed, deciding that the abridged version of their tale, dropping all mention of stolen APCs, scuffles with mutant freaks and the fact he was from another dimension, would be their best option. Although the smiling look in Dmitri's eyes betrayed that Pyotr had probably told them all he knew about their "uneventful" expedition…

Another batch of ominous shadows swept over them. Two Hunter-Seeker helicopters and their droning entourage of scanners, speeding low over the sprawling suburbs beyond the abandoned industrial heartland of City 17.

"I hate those things," Nuri muttered.

"Not a big fan of them myself," Nalore concurred. Never mind the fact that they'd tried to kill them both in a variety of ways; they were tasteless designs, prime examples of the Combine's penchant for angular black metal and exposed parts.

"You sure they're not going to come our way?" Charlie asked Dmitri in a low voice.

"Freeman is here," Dmitri answered sharply. "Breen has been dismissing story, so since Freeman arrived Breen will be desperate to find him before Resistance. Those won't be interested in us."

"The Free Man is a figure who inspires us all," Pyotr said with his usual seriousness, "We can not forget his actions before the Nihilanth's fall. But he was forced to sever the ties of many of his own kind to secure our freedoms. Sacrifice defines purpose, and our purpose defines our very existences."

No one said anything in reply. Pyotr presumed, as did three other Vorts he happened to transmit the dialogue to, that the humans were subdued his philosophical truths. In reality they'd understood little of what he'd said, and no one was sure who or what the Nihilanth was.

Quarir had a vague inkling that the creature had been some sort of telepathic dictator, but truth be told the Domarians had little understanding of the so-called "Borderworld", Xen, beyond its approximate location and anomalous nature. It was yet another thing the Supercomputer had covered up, something to be hidden from the public like the Arcadimaarians or Combine, something for secret agents and undeclared research authorities to probe and analyse and generally obsess over so Maintonon could eventually announce some sort of technological breakthrough. Damn thing thought that just because it was an eleven million year old genius it was somehow better than them.

But if the Nihilanth had fallen... well, wouldn't that threaten the very fabric of Xen? It was one big dimensional anomaly, after all, and surely something powerful enough to enslave the Vortigaunt race had enough psychic energy to cause real problems if he was suddenly removed from the scene.

Nalore got the impression that Freeman was somehow responsible for the thing's downfall. And if it really was a being so psychically potent that even the Arcadimaarian's hadn't accidently psiwarped to it then Freeman must have been a killing machine.

Nalore looked at Pyotr, who was slowly and silently following the apparently tireless Dmitri.  _Perhaps_ , Nalore realised,  _the Nihilanth's death was why there are Vorts here on Earth…_

"Outpost four, do you copy? Outpost four, do you copy?"

Dmitri abruptly stopped, quickly staring around for the origin of the urgent request. His move almost caused a pile up, but Nuri managed to stop herself falling onto Charlie after Quarir absently walked into her.

"Outpost four, we require..." The next few words were lost in a storm of static. "Please respond."

Dmitri approached an outflow pipe of truly massive girth, raised about three feet from the ledge they walked upon. It was only on closer examination that he realised the grating had a square hole, about a metre across, and it was blatantly cut rather than broken. "Someone made an entrance," the Russian thought aloud.

"This is outpost four, we can confirm, the Combine have deployed—" further garbling of the transmission— "we've lost contact with—" more white noise— "recommend immediate evacuation of all bases."

Dmitri hauled himself up through the opening, oblivious to the tiny stream of water that trickled over his fingers.

Quarir and the rest of the party watched the pipe expectantly as their esteemed leader splashed around inside it.

"Catch!"

Nalore managed to grab the object as it plummeted downward. Dmitri soon followed the chunky machine, but fortunately Quarir had the presence of mind to back away before the heavyset soldier landed.

"Well caught," Dmitri grinned, taking the radio from the Domarian's unresisting hands and tactfully ignoring his indignant expression. "Let's see what we get."

The communicator looked bulky and outmoded to Nalore, but most of this planet's technology did. It was just a big, metal, dial-covered box with a telescopic aerial and a thickset leather strap. But Dmitri seemed perfectly at home with it, crouching down behind it and altering its numerous settings by means of several sliders and switches.

"Repeat, we did not—" further static, punctuated by a handful of Russian curse words, "—reply. Please repeat last transmission."

The signal abruptly died, swallowed by the monotonous growl of interference. Despite his best efforts, Dmitri couldn't relocate the correct frequency. "That does not bode well," he said ominously, roughly shouldering the radio as if it was weightless.

"Hey, shouldn't we check that out?" Charlie scrabbled back to his feet, lingering next to the gurgling pipe.

"There was no lambda," Dmitri said gruffly. "It is not a base, not even cache. I found nothing but radio and a corpse."

"Oh," Charlie quickly hurried away from the outflow pipe, fully aware that the water trickling forth from it would likely be contaminated by the decaying body within…

"Guns?" Quarir asked hopefully, running to keep up with the indefatigable Dmitri. "Sure you didn't see anything…?"

"You have shotgun," Dmitri said unequivocally. "You do not need other. Why you want?"

"Because they're  _guns!_  This place has got zombies, evil cops, flying death machines…"

"Oh, you not used to it?" Dmitri ribbed him.

"You've obviously never been to the Ucelsian Catacombs, buddy."

"What?" Charlie appeared over Nalore's shoulder, all greasy tresses and elbows.

"Uh," Quarir played for time, "um… the Undersea Catacombs. What we used to call the caves near City 11's coast."

"Ah," Charlie nodded, and moved on.

"Smooth," Nuri whispered in Quarir's reddening ear.

"A most credible falsehood," Pyotr agreed. "Fortunately Charlie will not know that City 11 is landlocked."

Quarir limped off, mortified. "You're a bunch of jerks."

* * *

The rest of the trek to Dmitri's promised supplies was conducted in near-silence. They'd started off cheerful, or as cheerful as could be expected considering their situation, but their surroundings induced a kind of soul-crushing sobriety that smothered even Charlie's exuberance.

The canal districts were a depressing reminder of City 17's illustrious past; bordered on all sides by a panorama of once-thriving factories, derelict warehouses and crumbling offices. The Combine had seen little need for many of the structures, most of which employed methods rendered horribly inadequate by the arrival of the Union's technology, and thus they'd closed them down, demolished them, or… renovated them. The Civil Protection could employ the sort of "refurbishment" techniques that could turn the most humble depot into a place of utter terror.

They were nothing more than tiny specks at this distance but Dmitri spotted a pair of scanners, systematically searching a vast pile of bricks that was probably the headquarters of some former leader of Earth's commercial sector.

Dmitri quickened his pace, and his team followed suite, but Nuri's eyes lingered on the demolished edifice. Rotting masonry bobbing on the canal beneath it, twisted girders jutting out from the rubble like fractured bones.  _Once,_  she thought,  _this was a place where people came to work. And one day, they had to watch it collapse. Probably while they were still inside, defiant to the last moment._

The Combine had no concept of employee dissatisfaction. You worked, or you died. There was no other facet to their "working relationship" with the populace.

"It's like slavery," Nuri whispered huskily, "but worse, because somehow you still think you're making a difference when all they're really doing is sucking you dry and telling you things'll be so much better if you just let them take the last drop."

For once, Quarir didn't make a snide comment. He didn't make any tasteless remarks about sucking, he didn't roll his eyes at some imagined human deficiency, he just gently grasped her shoulder, muttered something vaguely supportive, and walked on.

The ledge they walked upon widened as the canal tapered away, vanishing into a pipe that constantly gushed its muddy payload. In fact from the looks of things all of the plant's pipes were disgorging earthy sludge.

"I think this was purifier once," Dmitri murmured. "And now we keep it as emergency base. Combine ignore it, they never even turn it off."

"Not exactly good at its job, is it?" Charlie made a face, pointing at the disgorging muck. "Look at the colour of that stuff!"

"I think that's a waste pipe," Nuri said, wiping her eyes for the third time. "The clean water goes elsewhere, and they try separating the worst of the rubbish from the main flow."

"Yes, but mainly it broken," Dmitri said dismissively. "I don't know how it work before. It's not important."

Pyotr waved all three hands expressively. "Such is life. All that is broke might be fixed, but that which is broke may not want it."

"It's very not important. Stop."

They bypassed the facility's perimeter fence with ease. It was eight feet of razor-tipped wire, but patches of it had been flattened into crumpled heaps of metal spaghetti. Ever the detective, Quarir deduced that, as the fence sagged noticeably in the middle, it was a clear sign that many people before them had walked over it…

"A lot of people go this way."

…as was the fact that Dmitri said as much.

The Russian practically jumped the fence and Pyotr bounded over it effortlessly, but Charlie stopped in mid step, eying Nalore and his shotgun crutch.

"You need a hand?" he offered..

"No," Quarir said quickly. "I'll be fine."

Charlie shrugged and stepped over the slumping barrier, and Quarir wondered if he was fit to do it himself. Holding the shotgun in a more usual position, Nalore moved over the wire with a series of small, pained steps, eventually clearing it with an ambivalent sense of embarrassed triumph.

"What happened to your leg anyway?" Charlie asked, this time with authentic curiosity.

"Headcrab bit it," Quarir said absently, resuming his gun-assisted hobbling.

"You mean scratched," Charlie corrected.

"No, it was black," Nalore snapped. "Poisonous one bit me."

Charlie goggled. "What, and you're still standing?!"

"We bled the venom out and got him a medkit straight afterwards," Nuri informed him, daintily stepping over the sagging fence. "He can walk, but I bet it hurts."

"Sure does," Quarir confirmed, immensely relieved that Nuri had successfully covered for him. He felt a mite guilty though, which was odd, because back on his homeworld (if you could call a construct like Ucelsia a world) he lied prolifically, professionally and happily, especially to a gullible kid like Charlie.

Maybe he was starting to develop a conscience. He found himself wondering, with a little twinge of homesickness, whether his fellow Domarian's had found a way to surgically remove one yet.

"Okay," Dmitri slapped his hands together. "Supplies will be in one of these pipes. Hold on."

The four of them felt tremendously exposed as they waited for Dmitri to find his coveted cache, although realistically they'd be invisible next to the towering water plant.

"Damn big place," Nalore muttered, unsure whether to be impressed by the facility's size or dismissive of its low tech components. "You lot sure it's just a purifier?"

"I'm really not sure," Nuri sniffed. "I don't think anyone knows."

"I can see air vents, pipes, a few places with windows which people probably had offices in…" Charlie shrugged. "Don't know what anything's for though. Don't need to these days, considering what the Combine does to stuff."

"You wouldn't have understood it anyway," Nuri teased. "Besides, I can't see any Combine tech here. I think they've left it alone."

"I dunno, there's that beige thing over there," Charlie lazily indicated a blob behind a cylindrical protrusion.

"Oh yeah, I see it," Nalore agreed. "Looks a lot like a…like a…"

The penny dropped, simultaneously, for all of them.

"It's a dropship!" Quarir bellowed. "Dmitri, look!"

A soldier emerged from between the forest of piping, pulse rifle raised. But Dmitri, responding either to their voices or some overpowering instinct, smashed the trooper aside with a meaty fist, catching the enemy's falling weapon before it hit the ground.

Charlie sprinted over to him with the others close behind. "So, what do we do?"

" _We_  do nothing," Dmitri snarled, firing the rifle at the horde of Combine troops that had appeared from nowhere. "Go!"

Nalore fired his shotgun, his augmentations absorbing most of the recoil, and a soldier flew backwards. "Don't think so," he grinned. "You need our help!"

"I need nothing!" Dmitri roared. "Get moving, or we'll all go with them!"

There was more than one of the bio-technological dropships. There were at least six, all carefully concealed behind whatever cover the Synth could find. There were innumerable soldiers, but also five of the white uniformed Elites; and Quarir would bet that the tall one at the centre was their old friend…

Dmitri was furious that they still hadn't left, but directed his anger at three advancing hostiles, who he cut down expertly with precise bursts of fire. "My father was special service," Dmitri forcibly shoved Nalore into Charlie, "I can hold them. Move! Pyotr, guide them, you know where to go!"

"What were you then?" Quarir found himself asking. Charlie, close to tears, was being dragged off by the more sensible Nuri, and Nalore found himself edging backwards- Pyotr had a lot of strength in those thin arms of his.

Dmitri sent another white-hot pulse round towards its mark. "Professional badass!" he called over his shoulder, "Now  _run!_ "

* * *

Forty watched them escape; two humans, a Vortigaunt, and a Domarian, three species fleeing the superior firepower of the Union.

He was more than capable of taking them down there and then, picking them off with perfect accuracy, killing them all within a matter of seconds.

But that wouldn't do. They were wanted alive, and Forty's latest additions were not designed for pacifying targets. They were better suited for combat, conflict in its purest form. No quarter, no hesitation, just the utter annihilation of the enemy.

Freeman's arrival had been confirmed, and hence Forty had been instructed to undergo the final stages of his development. The new installations were experimental, but he was confident of his success. He looked the same as he always had- but the clinically white uniform included smooth plates of an almost chitinous material, belying the cables and wiring that now mixed freely with the last remnants of his humanity.

Not that he retained any in the mental sense. He was long past that. But now his body matched his mind in every capacity: flawless, resilient… artificial.

The tall, bearded human cowering behind the main pipeline was beginning to tire, but a horde of dead lay at his feet. No matter, they were expendable models. Nothing irreplaceable had been utilised in their production. Inferior transhumans, the lot of them.

Of all of them, even his fellow Elites, Forty had been selected to take the last step. He alone had been chosen...  _him_! He was now irrefutably the best this planet had to offer. He would capture the Domarian and find if his claims had been true, sealing a wilful alliance with another empire and thus Forty would prove that his class were viable, paving the way for an entire army of his kind, an army that would become synonymous with the Union. They'd be as feared as any ponderous Strider or unstealthy Synth Gunship.

And soon after… Freeman would be his. The Domarian's collaborators no doubt had ties to the Resistance and must have known of the potential Anticitizen's location; their tracking had gone entirely to plan. Freeman would be brought to justice. The ultimate accolade, the only task truly worthy of Forty's abilities.

Dmitri rose, fired, and ducked again in the blink of an eye, downing another Combine soldier.

Of course, first Forty would have to eliminate this rebel.


	14. Chapter 14

**Going Coastal**

"We can't just leave him!" Charlie bawled.

Pyotr joined Nuri and effortlessly drew the Resistance member backwards. "Charlie will take heed: flee, or I shall render you comatose. I am quite capable of doing so."

"Think of it this way," Quarir yelled, "Dmitri's done a great thing. Now either you hang around for a good cry and let him waste his life or we  _move_! Your choice!"

Charlie hesitated for one more moment... then he turned and ran. It was the first sensible thing Nalore had seen the man do.

Gunfire rang in their ears, but it was impossible to tell whether the bullets were meant for them or were merely stray rounds. Dmitri was yelling and since he wasn't the kind of man to employ something as hackneyed as a battle cry, he was likely introducing the Combine to a new field of cursing. Assimilate that.

"There're a couple of, of s-scanners…" Charlie stammered hesitantly.

"They're not our problem! Less talk more run!" Quarir snapped. He'd have expected Pyotr to overtake him, but Nuri and Charlie? Sure, his leg still hurt like hell, but he was meant to have a pair of lungs with a capacity 60% greater than a normal human's. The bastards at the tech market must have fleeced him. Good job he'd given them counterfeit currency.

"Do you know where you're going?" Nuri called to Pyotr.

"Yes," the Vortigaunt said simply, lumbering through the thinning array of pipelines at high speed.

"There're—"

"Shut up," Nalore told Charlie automatically, but then he paused.

Humming. It was almost pleasant, and it carried well, stifling the noise of the battle as if it flew overhead…

"The Dropships are following us?!" Quarir gawked in disbelief, "They're not meant to have enough sense to do that!" He was enraged that the Overwatch had chosen now, of all times, to become tactically savvy.

Two of the flying personnel carriers had broken off from the main group in pursuit of the assorted rebels, and they were gaining on them. "Is there anything we can do about those?" Nuri shouted in what she presumed to be Pyotr's ear.

"The Dropships are less agile than their Gunship brethren," the 'Gaunt croaked. "We may be able to find shelter before they get up to speed."

"And if we have to run for a long time?"

"We make peace with whatever powers we hold dear."

"Brilliant…" Nuri was about to make a Quarir-esque reply when sparks erupted from every direction.

This time the fire was unmistakably aimed their way. The approaching Dropships sent a cascade of rounds pouring off the scant protection supplied by the ever-diminishing conduits.

The huge, almost beetle-like Synth carried blatantly inorganic black capsules slung beneath their bellies. The designers of the transport pods had seen fit to equip them with high-calibre pulse weapons. Soon they'd be within such short range that missing the four exhausted renegades would be an impossibility. Soon…

An apocalyptically loud engine roared, and a rusting blue van smashed through pipes and fencing alike, skidding to a halt before them.

The back door opened and a woman beckoned at the frankly bemused quartet. "Get in!"

"Who the hell are you?" Quarir wheezed.

"And where on Earth did you get a working van from?" Nuri gasped incredulously.

The woman merely waved them in again. "Someone who's offering you an alternative to being blasted into next Wednesday!"

"She makes a most valid point," Pyotr accepted, hopping up into the interior.

Charlie allowed himself to be pulled in and Nuri barely hesitated, but Nalore wasn't so sure. Then a warning sign inches from his head shattered; the flying shards of plastic spurred him into leaping inside the van, which took off as soon as his feet struck its floor.

The van's gears squealed in protest and the engine sounded as if it was going to explode, but the driver somehow managed to get them going at 60 from a standing start. Nalore almost fell out the vehicle but Pyotr grabbed him and drew him back in.

"Pretty close, huh?" their saviour drawled, slamming the doors shut.

"Yes," Nuri nodded, juggling her need to catch her breath with her desire for answers. "Thank you. Now who are you?"

"I'm Kim," said Kim. "And we're Resistance members, like you didn't notice. And this here is Maggie," she finished, pointing down.

"You said 'we'?" Charlie quizzed.

A metal flap at Maggie's rear flopped open. "You thought we'd installed an autopilot?" said a face that was just visible through the opening, "Hardly. I'm Reginald, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Quarir treated both the upper crust driver and his passenger to friendly nods, but he wasn't prepared to settle for the information they'd give him. "Yeah, hello, and thanks," he began, unaware of the loudening humming, "but what were you doing around here anyway?"

Gunfire shattered the peace and put a neat line of holes in the van's roof; Kim merely sighed at the damage but her new comrades edged away from the glowing punctures.

"Dammit Reg," Kim yelled above the collective noise of their Synth pursuers and Maggie the van, "I thought you said you could outrun those things?"

"On a straight I probably could, but  _they_  can just fly over obstacles," the driver drolly informed her. "Hold on, we are almost at the tunnel."

"The oppressor is likely to break off their pursuit once we reach such a place," Pyotr elaborated, managing to stand perfectly still despite the violent tremors of their transport. "They intended to destroy us after a brief hunt, as Dropships are not the most agile of Synth. They would not have expected us to board this vehicle."

"Yeah? They're not the only ones," Nalore turned back to Kim, who was kicking aside the scrap metal that covered the van's floor. "How come you're here anyway?"

"I told you!"

"No you damn well didn't. We got shot at, remember?"

"Oh," Kim was nonplussed. "well..."

There was a bang and Maggie jerked violently.

"Ah, it appears that they've burst our rear tyre," Reginald informed them embarrassedly. "However I'm sure we can still make it."

Nuri wouldn't have thought it was possible, but their transit became even less pleasant, the van slanting noticeably to the right and shuddering all the way. Charlie fell over and was pattered with tumbling lumps of metal, while Pyotr watched, curious at humanity's complete lack of natural balance.

Whistling cheerily, Kim produced a small welding torch and a makeshift faceguard. She was about to fire it up when Reg spotted her in his rear-view mirror and shouted over his shoulder; "This is hardly the best time Kim, you can seal the bullet holes up later!"

Charlie gave up trying to stand and sulkily sat himself down in the corner, feeling utterly blind and impotent in the gloomy, windowless rear of the automobile. "Are we nearly there?" he called up at the viewing hatch, instantly regretting the move as he realised how childish he'd sound.

Nevertheless, Reg seemed more than happy to answer him. "We'll be there in two minutes, I can see it right ahead of our position."

"We don't have that kind of time," Kim snapped, "just drive over the barriers."

Nalore saw Reg nod and there was a slight click as he changed gears. "Uh, wait," Nalore said tentatively, "do you mean barriers as in road barriers? As in—"

An ear-rending screech announced that yes, they had torn through the metal barricades, and for a second Quarir felt weightless as they plummeted downward. The sensation didn't last. The van struck the road and the four of them stumbled.

Pyotr, of course, remained upright. As a native Xenian he was used to the Borderworld's constantly shifting continental bodies. It was making him feel intensely homesick.

Grumbling, Quarir drew himself back to his feet, pointedly refusing to offer Kim a hand up, so he was even more galled when she regained her footing with no apparent difficulty.

"We have reached the tunnel," Reg announced, as if his passengers had failed to realise it was pitch-black, "we should have enough time to change the tyre before those Combine types follow us on foot."

Kim opened the door. It hit something, something which groaned in pain and confusion.

"There're zombies out here!" she shrieked.

"That is of no consequence, as I doubt they would offer you assistance in refitting this vehicle," Pyotr told her coldly. "I shall carry out the repairs. Hand me the 'spare tyre'."

Kim pressed the rubber ring into Pyotr's hands. The Vort dropped outside without hesitation.

"Grah-gaah!"

"Ni'drth tch'kul!" There was a crackling noise and a smell of burning flesh.

"Gaah."

"Damnable hybrids." There were scraping sounds as Pyotr set about his task with skill, not that anyone had any idea how or where the Vortigaunt had last practised the talent.

"How's it going?" Charlie shouted outside.

"It is going as can be expected. I only have one and a half pairs of hands. K'ch'uthil!"

"What's that mean?"

"It means," Quarir snapped, "that he's going to feed you to the zombies if you don't stop asking stupid questions."

Pyotr gurgled in approval. "Quarir Nalore is broadly correct. Metaphorically speaking."

* * *

"I wonder if Pyotr needs covering fire," Nuri mused.

"What would you cover him with?" Kim asked Nuri, planting herself down next to her. "That revolver?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Wasting .357 ammunition on a few zombies?" Kim noticeably cringed when she said the word. "I can't stand them, but those kind of rounds don't grow on trees…"

"Oh, I've… ah… got plenty. Yes."

"I doubt you'd have enough!"

Nuri merely smiled. "No, I'm pretty sure I would."

Kim shrugged and went back to handling the welder she'd been ordered not to use.

Nuri turned her Arcadimaarian-infused pistol over and over in her hands. It didn't look any different, but she remembered Quarir commenting on the fact that it was unique. After all, how many other Earth-made weapons had been supercharged by alien freaks?

The pistol was an heirloom, and she'd always prized it above all else, but now… well, now it was something legends were made of.  _Except,_ she grinned, recalling Dmitri's words,  _without the gods in togas._

"I have returned a tyre to the vehicle and I see the oppressor approaching!" Pyotr shouted, noisily clambering into the van before Kim slammed the doors shut, "Let us make haste!"

"Certainly!" Reg bellowed in reply.

Maggie shook as her aging engine shuddered into life, and within moments the armour-plated vehicle was roaring through the gloomy tunnel.

"We should be back home in about an hour; I think I've got enough petrol to go the distance."

Maggie wobbled fiercely and a strange sound split the air.

"You've not got engine trouble have you?" Kim asked.

"No, I think our headlights are just starting to fail."

"That doesn't explain the jolt."

"Yes it does. I ran over a zombie."

* * *

The group talked to pass the time but the journey wasn't helped by Kim's endless enthusiasm for Maggie the van.

 

**"** **She used to be a SWAT van," Kim explained happily, "so all we did was replace her burnt out components and tack some more armour on her..."**

 

**"** **Not SWAT, Kim," Reginald corrected tiredly, "she'd have come from whatever equivalent they have over here."**

 

**"** **Whatever. Either way she's supported us through thick and thin and whenever we get the chance we modify her."**

 

**"** **I'm afraid that Kim has a bit of an A-Team thing going on."**

 

**"** **What?" said Kim, and she was echoed by everyone except Pyotr and Quarir, who couldn't be bothered enough to express confusion over yet another impenetrable Earth reference.**

Reg sighed. "Never mind. Kids today. I wish someone would remind you what went on in the world before the Combine."

 

**"** **How old are you anyway?" Charlie asked brusquely.**

Reginald seemed only to happy to answer; "Oh, about fifty, I suppose. I never really kept count in the old days… the Combine keeps all your details on file but its idea of a birthday party is its regular Socio-Biological Integrity scans. And you can be promoted, fired or even killed depending on what those find."

 

**"** **Whoa, they never did that to me!"**

 

**"** **Oh, they wouldn't. You'd likely have to undertake an SBI if you were caught doing something they consider to be illegal, but they only seem to force them on you constantly if you're old or high ranked."**

 

**"** **Oh?" Charlie perked up, his interest caught, "What did you do before you joined the Resistance?"**

 

**"** **You wouldn't believe me if I told you… ah, here we are."**

Maggie's brakes screeched in disapproval as she drew to an abrupt halt and, yet again, her passengers found themselves picking each other up off the floor.

Kim kicked the doors aside and stood out into the crisp air. "Looks pretty quiet today."

Charlie followed her, squinting at the unaccustomed sunlight. "Just looks like a lot of sand and grass to me."

Pyotr stepped down and gently prodded Charlie in the back. "Charlie would locate the elusive Resistance base if he were to look in the other direction."

The young rebel did so, and realised that the van was parked under a ramshackle lean-to. The adjoining building was similarly nondescript, but it was a brick structure and obviously older.

Beyond the improvised garage facility there were several small, widely spaced shacks and houses, tactically positioned behind rocks and grass tussocks in an attempt to camouflage the small base from the Combine's eyes.

Nuri looked around, and spotted the seashore and the lapping ocean. "We must be a good distance from City 17."

 

**"** **Yes," said Reginald, "Grassy Knoll is well hidden, we're more of an emergency outpost than a major residence. A place to fall back to when your guerrilla attack has failed, and suchlike."**

Charlie turned away from the village-turned-hideout and gasped as Reginald stepped out of the van.

Reg shrugged. "Yes, I suppose I'm not what you expected."

"Sorry," said Charlie, blushing. "Sorry."

Reginald had an eyepatch and a prosthetic limb. Quarir noted that the limb wasn't Domarian-standard. It was functional but it wasn't a marked improvement over a natural appendage; it was a slender, spring bound device that nevertheless managed to move quite fluidly.

"I'm right handed," Reginald explained, "so all I really have to do with this thing is hold the steering wheel occasionally, which it manages just fine."

"'Cept when it rusts up," Kim considered, "'cause then I have to stick a crowbar in and heave."

"If, if you don't mind," Charlie asked sheepishly, "how did you…?"

"Lose it?" Reginald dragged a briefcase out of the van with his good hand, "It was an accident, a long time ago. I lost my eye at the same time. It wasn't one of my best days."

"Reg is a right fighter," Kim declared, "just like Maggie here. Now if you guys don't mind, I need to fire up the welder and—"

"We can afford to show our guests around first, Kim," Reg said firmly. "It would be a very good idea if we introduced them to the rest of the team. Priorities."

Reginald led the way and Quarir and co. tagged on after him; and all the while Kim was muttering to the effect that it wasn't as if  _they_  had bullet holes in them.

Nalore decided not to comment on that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Postponing Victory**

Charlie bowed his head. He knew that the tasks facing a Resistance fighter were dangerous and testing, but he'd never imagined they'd be this bad…

"I'm led to believe this is built on an old Soviet bunker."

"Mm?"

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

Charlie just nodded. While his "friends" had let Kim take them to meet the leader of this dreary little hillock, they'd let him volunteer for Reg's offer: a full guided tour of Grassy Knoll.

And, unfortunately for Charlie, the man seemed to know as much about the village's history as Kim did about pre-Combine combustion engines.

"This  _had_  been a listening outpost but during the paranoid spurts of the Cold War they turned it into a bomb shelter for the locals."

"You don't say?"

"Even now we keep it fully stocked with emergency supplies, so even if the Combine realised we were here, well, it'd be of little consequence."

"Mmf."

"We converted an old windmill into a radio mast; it really was most clever of Kim and young miss Zosia."

Charlie consoled himself with the fact that, any moment now, the others would emerge from the village hall. They'd enlighten him, explaining their next move or their desire to set up a small vegetable farm or whatever the hell they had planned… but most importantly they'd save him from the eloquent but utterly dull Brit.

"Thanks to it we're able to maintain contact with the other coastal bases and we've established a useful reconnaissance network. But it's best utilised in an inventorial sense: we can request grain, or export our excess flour..."

"Oh, God…"

"Hmm?"

"Uh… oh, good. It's good to see you have a working system."

"Yes, just the other day we swapped a kilogram of salt for a little extra lumber. I could show you the records, if you like."

"Great," Charlie said weakly.

* * *

Once the village hall had been a homely structure used for nothing more exciting than a bring-and-buy sale or the occasional poll of the electorate.

Now there wasn't a single spot of empty space. The hall was packed full of everything from splintering dining tables to machine parts, presumably remnants of Kim's pet projects. The windows had been boarded up to hide its nightly lights from Combine patrols. This Resistance cell was under no illusions as to what would happen if one such squadron found them.

 

**"** **This here is Zosia," Kim said with half-hearted enthusiasm, as if she'd much rather describe the workings of the cast iron components around her feet, "she's the brains of the outfit as long as it's to do with anything 'cept cars."**

 

**"** **Hi," Zosia said, offering her hand. Quarir and Nuri shook it warmly, and Pyotr treated the woman to his customary bow, his hands clasped together.**

 

**"** **Zosia," Nuri said contemplatively, releasing her grip, "that's a Polish name, isn't it?"**

Zosia's face lit up. "Yes, I'm glad you noticed!"

 

**"** **I'm part Polish myself," Nuri explained eagerly, "I'm Nuri. One of my parents came from Spain but—"**

 

**"** **Sorry to interrupt, but we have much to discuss."**

A man had just entered the room. Tall, dark skin, thick haired. He was clad in an outfit that seemed part boiler suit, part cloak, part mattress, but other than that it was blatantly obvious to the newcomers that he was the man in charge.

"I'm Zichekoam, I'm the head of this little operation." He shook Nalore's hand. "But you can call me Zyke."

"Uh, hi, Zyke," Quarir gripped the proffered hand, wondering why the man's skin was so clammy, "it's a nice place you've got here."

"Yes, we've got high hopes, but at the moment it's too much grass, not enough knoll."

Nalore laughed. Zyke turned to the mechanic, who was suddenly all ears. "Kim, would you mind taking Nuri down to the old windmill? You and Zosia could explain how it all works. I need to have a word with Quarir and Pyotr."

Kim nodded and dashed outside, grabbing Zosia along with her, muttering to her fellow engineer about going off half-cocked. Nuri gave Quarir a questioning glance before following behind them.

"Now, if you two would follow me," Zyke asked, "we can get started."

Zyke spun round and vanished into an adjoining room. Nalore went after him, suddenly realising that the head of Grassy Knoll had known all their names…

The unlikely trio took a rickety staircase, eventually coming to a pokey little room. It had been an attic before its conversion, windowless, relying on a single light bulb to illuminate the desks that Zyke had somehow found room enough to position.

"So," Zyke said, falling into a chair and advising Nalore to do the same with a hand motion, "he finally sent someone."

"What?" Quarir blinked.

"Maintonon. It's about time that cybernetic bastard sent help. I've been here for three years!"

* * *

Quarir Nalore wasn't speechless. Far from it. But he had, temporarily, forgotten how to talk cohesively.

"Urp?"

"Well, what did you expect?" Zichekoam asked his fellow Domarian testily, "You ever heard of someone from Earth with a name like this?"

Nalore shook his head. "Blah."

"They see me as an eccentric, although they have accepted my leadership. I'm not sure how the Earth hierarchy works, even after all this time."

Quarir nodded, and eventually managed to force some words out. "I guess it's because you're dressed like some sort of plumber superhero."

Zyke grinned. "You know how it is. Maintonon sends you down with no guns, no equipment and grungy Earth clothing to approximate what you'd worn to begin with."

Quarir squinted at him. "What, you were wearing overalls and a cape when he sent you down?"

"This isn't a cape, it's a cloak. There's a difference. And yes, I was dressed similarly to this."

"I believe his garb is both inspired by ethos and by necessity," Pyotr droned.

"What, you knew?" Nalore bore down on the Vortigaunt. "You didn't say anything!"

"Why did you think the janitor Vort went with you so readily?" Zyke scolded him. "They've been supporting us all the way, and one of them even gave his life."

Pyotr bowed his head. "We have encountered your species beforehand, and we understand your plight. Although it can not take precedence over our own struggle we will aid you in yours."

Zyke nodded. "We have another Vort, Archibald, manning the radio mast. He's been keeping me updated on your little 'adventures'."

Quarir snapped his fingers. "Ah-ha! So that's how you knew our names! For a moment I thought  _you_  were a telepath or something."

"Oh, I am," Zyke shrugged, "I just don't see the point when speech is a perfectly fine medium."

Nalore was prepared to accept that. Although they weren't all psionically proficient like the Arcadimaarians, the Domarian Legion still had a few psions of their own.

"If you don't mind me asking," Nalore began, still coming to terms with the fact he'd finally rendezvoused with his first objective, "are you a bion yourself? Or did you not want to risk dulling your psi with any implants?"

Zyke chuckled. "Oh, no, I don't think they've invented anything that'll work on people like me yet. Since I contracted the Rot I've—"

"What?!" Quarir goggled. "You're a  _Rot?_ "

Zyke sighed.

"And you're walking about? You'll start a pandemic that'll swap the Earth! You'll infect the 'Gaunts and—"

"Firstly," Zyke snapped, "the Vortigaunts seem utterly immune to all disease." At this Pyotr nodded. "It's a concept they can't even grasp. And secondly, I've been a Rot for two hundred years. I'm quite capable of keeping my diseases to myself thank you very much."

Nalore relaxed a little. "So you're one of the advanced Rots?"

"Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it. I got used to it pretty damn quickly."

Nalore had the decency to look embarrassed. The Rot effectively crippled the immune system of a victim, inducing widespread infection and even mutation and, appropriately enough, slowly began to break down the body of the carrier.

However, in many cases, the Rot successfully bonded with its host at a genetic level, creating a genetic variant that was, if anything, healthier than their original selves. A being that could literally control their bodily functions.

"Used to be quite the killer before they introduced serum," Nalore said, ostensibly to keep Pyotr informed but in truth to defend his prejudiced attitude.

"I have never understood the Domarian need for their 'serum'," Pyotr responded calmly.

"Oh," Quarir perked up. He knew a lot about the Legion's serum, as once he'd stolen a large shipment and sold it on. "I can explain how it works."

"We are fully aware of its purpose," said Pyotr, "just not why it is so desired."

Now Zyke looked similarly confused. "It prolongs life and vaccinates us against galactic sicknesses that would otherwise kill us! Look at me, if I'd died at 90 like our Ancient ancestors I'd have been too weak to survive and bond with the Rot!"

"You are so close to human that there is no difference," Pyotr said flatly. "This planet's dominant species performs admirably without advanced technology and without artificially lengthened life spans."

"Serum alters us genetically so that even our  _kids_  become serumites and keep the characteristics," Nalore continued in Zyke's support, both of them united by stubborn patriotism, "and yeah, I'm sure this planet was a great place, but just because we use what we've got doesn't make us inferior because Earth can't. Our tech has got its downsides, sure, but we are what we are."

Pyotr put his head to one side. "We do recall the incidents on Colony 351. Gaseum mutants would not exist if it weren't for the Domarian's dabbling."

"There's more than one Domarian district," Zyke said coldly. "You people refer to us all as Domarian but more than half of us live in different star systems and consider themselves entirely different societies.  _They_  made the Gaseum strain to try and wipe out Rots, to wipe out my kind. It was only when they realised that the Rot was helping to annihilate the intarl epidemic that they tried to recall it but by then, well, we had a lot of shambling killer mutants…"

Pyotr bowed his head again. "Please do not take offence. We were merely voicing our observations. There are many parallels between us all."

"Not with us and the Combine," Zyke said firmly. "I can assure you of that."

"The Combine has forbidden reproduction here and the Security chips implanted in Domarians toggle fertility, do they not?"

Quarir shrugged. "But we're not  _forced_  into doing anything, despite what you think."

Pyotr nodded profoundly. "Most correct. Merely because we share some aspects of the oppressor does not mean we should feel ashamed. Indeed, the Rot passes over my species and the Combine but we should not despair in that similarity. It would not be a purposeful task."

"Uh, yeah. Exactly," Quarir chanced.

"I agree. I think. Vortigaunts have a way with words."

"We are great philosophers and judges. Is it not said, 'Thy-irli sh'jug, dar-karuh'kilch'?"

"Probably," Zyke mumbled. "And now don't think ill of me, but we need to move away from ethical debate and discuss action. I've been waiting three years for this! My reinforcements are here, Freeman's here… and now the Combine are in for a world of hurt."

"I don't get this Freeman guy," Nalore admitted, "but he seems almost messianic to these people."

Zyke gnawed his lip, searching for an example. "You know Quinn?"

"The hero technician? Sure!"

"And you know Jonathan Saurn?"

"Yeah, he basically stopped a war."

"Right," Zyke grinned triumphantly, "now picture them both added together."

"Wow."

"And dressed in orange, for some reason."

* * *

Nuri had expected the windmill to be a wooden-slatted giant fresh from a pre-Combine musical, but the reality was very different; a collection of poles, cogs, and corrugated iron, lashed together with rope. The rotors themselves looked absolutely lethal, like an outsized blender.

As Reginald cheerfully described (much to Charlie's dismay) the mill was part flour-grinder, part turbine, and part antenna. Despite its height and the many cables that led from it, it was so slender compared to the neighbouring buildings that there was little chance of a Combine scout spotting anything out of the ordinary.

"We'd invite you in," Kim told them, "but there's just one ladder and Archie tends to get grouchy if we send in visitors. It's a bit cramped in there."

"I'll say," Zosia smiled, "there's enough bare wiring and exposed axels inside to let Kim refit Maggie twice over."

"Doesn't exactly sound safe," Charlie mumbled, warily eying the ramshackle tower.

"Vorts are electrically resistant and pretty damn patient," Kim replied. "We made the place with Archie in mind. Vorts love having jobs. They like to feel needed."

"Don't we all?" Zosia sidled over to the mill and rapped her knuckles on a loose sheet. "Archie! You've got visitors!"

The improvised gong echoed around half the village. Eventually, a muffled but clearly rather agitated voice responded; "Kindly desist. I am operating the radio transmitter."

Kim roughly pushed past Zosia to stick her head through the door and bellow up the ladder. "What? Who's on the other side?"

"I believe that Aegis Patrol has finally returned," Archibald replied touchily. "Be silent."

Kim dashed outside and looked around wildly. "I don't see nothing."

"What are we looking for?" Charlie asked, but he was ignored. He was perfectly used to this, however, and he continued to scan the horizon aimlessly.

"I see something," Nuri called, pointing over the endless tussocks of the coast. Blots of black sped across the sands towards the base.

"There's a lot less of them," Zosia gasped.

"Shit, one's on fire!" Kim swore.

"Reporting is my task," Archibald bellowed gutturally. "If you wish to be useful ready your garage for emergency repairs."

* * *

"You want my honest opinion?" Quarir looked at Zyke as if he'd just requested a plateful of his own toenail clippings.

"Of course," Zyke swept his arms out expressively, "I value your input. You're the first Domarian I've seen in years!"

"Well…"

"Yes?"

"I think your plan sucks."

"What?"

"It's just that City 17 is like… like… well, it's the Combine capital here, from what I've heard. It's fortified, it's got force fields at all the major entrances, and they've got thousands of troops and all those Synth."

"It wouldn't be the easiest of options," Zyke admitted, unused to being admonished, "but it's Maintonon's plan. The two of us, that is my contact and I, are to head there and await further instruction."

"Oh yeah? What would he know?"

"He's millions of years old and he helped us win two of the bloodiest wars in history," Zyke exhaled, "there's a precedent."

"You were calling him a cybernetic bastard a few moments ago!"

"He  _is_  a cybernetic bastard! He r _evels_  in being an asocial asshole! But it doesn't mean I don't recognise tactical skill when I see it!"

"Bullshit! He wants to save this planet? Send a few Grandcruisers! They can bombard this place from orbit and practically tear the planet in half!"

Zyke looked uncomfortable, as if he'd had the exact same thought. "They outnumber us. We need to be covert!"

"Covert?! We wiped the floor with the Ploror Conglomerate, and they outnumbered us three to one!"

"The Combine outnumber us  _thousands_  to one," Zyke snapped, "if not millions. And the Conglomerate couldn't teleport ready-built fortresses onto our planets, or draw on reinforcements from other dimensions. The issue is working against the Combine but not letting them think we're a threat. They barely know of our existence, and we want to keep it that way!"

Pyotr decided to interject. "That is correct. They are aware of your approximate position but as a space-faring civilisation you are too strong to invade at this point in time. The Combine is encountering difficulties on many fronts, and they would not risk their hold on your neighbouring quadrants just to take yours."

"That's what they said about the Arcadimaarians," Nalore spat, "and look what they're trying to do."

Zyke stood up. "We haven't seen Arc activity in decades, Quarir."

"Oh yeah?" Quarir opened his jacket and whipped something out. "Look at this!"

For a moment Zichekoam thought Nalore had torn his belt off for some unfathomable reason, but he faced something far worse than falling trousers. "That's an Arc amplifier gauntlet! What the hell…?"

Quarir grimly turned the object over so his latest comrade could examine it better. "I found a Zealot here... or more accurately, a Zealot found me. If it wasn't for some Combine guy turning up I'd be dead."

"Wait, wait," Zyke rubbed his forehead. "You've seen an Arc here and you didn't say anything? And it was a  _Zealot_?"

Pyotr perked up again. "That was the entity that severed one of our ties."

"You knew too? And none of you thought this might be worth mentioning to me?"

Quarir shrugged, realising he had a point. "Well…"

"And on top of it all, there's a 'Combine guy' capable of taking on a Zealot and  _winning?_ "

"Uh, it got the jump on him but yeah, it seemed pretty tough…"

"God damn! What were you before Maintonon recruited you? A comedian?"

"Since you asked, a serial con artist and millionaire."

"I had to ask, didn't I?"

"I am sorry to disrupt your important musings," Pyotr interrupted solemnly, "but I have received news from 'Archibald'. It is of the utmost importance."

"Wish I was telepathic," Nalore shook his head in awe.

"It's overrated," Zyke sniffed, "I haven't met anyone worth reading."

"Hey!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Aegis**

"Aegis?" Quarir tutted. "That's original."

Zichekoam gave the man a disapproving look and continued walking. "It's practically traditional. You'd be hard pressed to find any organisation  _anywhere_  without a squad, weapon or vehicle called 'Aegis'."

"So you named it yourself? You've been busy."

Zyke drew his cloak about him to shield him from the wind. His garb looked far less ludicrous when his overalls were concealed. "This place wasn't even a real Resistance cell when I arrived, it was just a hideout for a ragtag bunch of fugitives."

"And you popped up dressed like Super-plumber and they decided to make you their leader, right?"

"More or less," Zyke pointedly ignored the jibe, "we've been working on fortifications."

Nalore looked around at the village and snorted. "You call this fortified?"

"Fortification of the spirit is just as vital as the fortification of the dwelling," said Pyotr.

"Oh yeah? I've never seen a fortified spirit block missiles."

"I've made the base more functional," Zyke snapped at them. "I paired Kim off with Zosia and they managed to turn the mill into a radio transmitter, and we contacted other bases. We ended up as perfectly useful outpost for refuelling and restocking Resistance expeditions."

"I bet you're very proud."

"Yeah, I am," Zyke whirled on him, and Nalore suddenly realised just how tall the Rot was. "What were you doing two years ago? Hmm? Sitting down guzzling champagne?" Nalore couldn't think of anything to say, but Zyke wasn't waiting for a response. " _I_  was here, making a difference. The people here have something to fight for. I help them, I help us."

"Uh that's cool," Quarir squeaked, "you've done a good job and I bet they all appreciate it."

Zyke harrumphed, brushing past the innumerable tufts of green that cropped up all over Grassy Knoll. He stopped, and Quarir did likewise, only just managing to prevent himself blundering over a rocky ledge that the sward had screened from view. The cliff overlooked a length of sandy beach, curving downward to meet the outcropping that was the bedrock of the refitted windmill.

"As 'Archibald' did inform, Aegis have returned, but they are depleted." Pyotr trotted down towards the windmill, where a small huddle of figures was waving and pointing at the approaching patrol.

"Lot of vehicles there," Quarir mused, slowly following the Vortigaunt but rarely taking his eyes from the convoy. "You responsible?"

"No, the patrol was put together by our neighbours to keep an eye on Combine activity. Thanks to our radio mast they can transmit far and wide," Zyke explained proudly. "There's one or two of them missing, though…"

"Maybe they got attacked?"

"Likely. There's a good chance they broke up to inform the outlying bases."

The first member of the Aegis contingent pulled up at the windmill just as Nalore and Zyke did. The lead vehicle was a compact, battered car, covered with mismatched plating.

Kim hopped down from the boulder she was using as a vantage point. "You can drive into the garage," she shouted, waving for the car to go on, "we can refill your tanks and get you going again."

"No time!" the helmeted driver bellowed, "Combine are following us! You need to find space to hide all of us, or else it's over!"

The dented sports car spewed sand in all directions as it roared towards the open shack Kim affectionately referred to as the "East Garage".

"Have we got enough room for them?" Zyke yelled at his dumbstruck subordinates.

"The buggy and the trike will probably both fit in the West Garage," Kim calculated, "but I'll have to clear some space in my workshop if we want to fit their truck in next to Maggie."

"Then do it! Zosia, go and help her. You too Reg, if you're up for it."

"Always am," Reginald pulled off a teasing salute with his stiff left arm and enthusiastically followed the two women.

"Archie, Pyotr, can you pick up on any Vorts? Or are they all human?"

The two Vortigaunts shook their heads sadly. "There is no presence to detect," Pyotr murmured.

"Damn… get back in and man the radio," Zyke told Archibald, but the especially wizened Vortigaunt was already on the move. "See if you can find out what's following them and how far behind it is. I'll have a word with the guy in the car- Quarir, you stay here, and direct them to the West Garage and workshop!" Zyke called over his shoulder, heading to the shack where the Aegis patrolman was hurriedly trying to draw the sliding door shut over his precious car.

"Uh," Nalore looked around wildly. Archibald was running back to the mast with the familiar gait common to all 'Gaunts, Kim and her team were vanishing around the other side of the base, and Zyke was screaming at the driver. "Where  _are_  the garage and...?"

He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and turned to see Nuri. "I'm sure they'll know where to go. Stop panicking."

Cacophonic squeals split the air as a three-wheeled former motorcycle roared past with a sparsely-framed buggy in tow. They paid no attention to the onlookers, instead speeding down the dirt path that encircled Grassy Knoll.

"Quarir Nalore would be best served by worrying over more appropriate matters," Pyotr told them wisely. "In addition, we are pleased to see Nuri Dekker again."

"Me too," Nalore blurted out.

"Oh, sure, ignore me," Charlie said sulkily.

Quarir had, in fact, been doing just that. "It's been pretty hectic, I'm glad you're—"

A rusty pickup truck hurtled past.

"Was that truck on fire?" Nuri gawped.

"As we say, immolation is not a subject we should concern ourselves with," Pyotr repeated sternly.

"Those are APCs, right?" Quarir jabbed a finger towards the vast beach.

"Yes," Nuri gasped, watching the steady advance of the troop transports, "there's no way they won't spot us."

"There's a Gunship right there!" Charlie bellowed. "What are we meant to do against a Gunship?!"

The whitish bulk of a Synth flyer was passing over the cliff tops with deceptive swiftness. Distant as it was, its otherworldly song still managed to permeate the background noise of shouts and engines.

"Nothing," Zyke said firmly. "I've just talked with the patrol leader, but the what, why and how is irrelevant now. What we need to do is draw them all away from the base, otherwise they'll find us and keep coming back."

"What are you suggesting?" Nalore asked, although he was already readying his shotgun.

"I'm saying that you should give me that gauntlet of yours, and then we're going to steal Maggie. They'd never let me go alone, but I can't let them come with me. They'd never believe this, anyway."

"What makes you think  _we'd_  let you go alone?" Nuri stood forward next to Quarir, as the Domarian produced the amplifier gauntlet and handed it to the Rot.

"Nothing," Zichekoam smiled, and he slipped the Arcadimaarian gauntlet on.

"What's that thing?" Charlie squinted at the ornate amplifier. Zyke waved a hand, and the man blinked and fell backward.

"I only stunned him," Zyke told their shocked expressions, "he'll be fine behind that rock. Eli Vance has been captured, and he's integral to Maintonon's plan. So you three are coming with me."

* * *

"Was it really necessary to stun Charlie?"

Zyke gave Nuri an appraising look. "You didn't seem the sort to ask stupid questions." He winced in concentration. "You're... thinking of another one. Ask that."

"How did you...?"

"No, not the one where you're wondering if I'm psychic."

"I..."

"Or the one where you worry about Eli Vance. I meant the one where you wonder how the hell I knew about this gauntlet."

Nuri was understandably taken aback. "You're not human."

"That's a loaded question for someone like me but the easy answer is no. Open the door, Quarir."

"Sure. But keep the hell out of her head, huh?"

He pulled the van's door open. It had no actual lock, merely a swing-bar that held it closed during transit.

Zyke imperiously told Pyotr and Nuri to get inside. They did so, responding to the voice of authority, and Nalore had enough sense to get into the passenger seat without instruction.

Checking that no one was skulking around the lean-to garage, Zyke hopped into the driver's seat. "Here's hoping Kim doesn't notice until it's too late," he said under his breath.

Quarir clumsily fastened his seat belt. "Don't you need a key, or something, for these things?"

"I've got a spare," Zyke plugged the backup into the ignition slot and fired the elderly van up. "Anything on your side?"

Nalore peered through his window. "Don't see anything…"

"Good."

Maggie lurched backwards, and Quarir's face came within millimetres of meeting the dashboard. Primitive mechanisms rattling away and wheels spinning, the van burst out of its own private dust cloud and performed a flawless 3 point turn under Zyke's expert hands.

Nalore tried to look through the viewing hatch over his left shoulder. From the sound of things, Nuri had just fallen over and Pyotr was helping her up—

"What the hell?!"

—and Kim had just realised what was happening. She was running out of her workshop, waving a sprocket wrench and hurling terms that Nalore wasn't familiar with although he was certain they weren't complimentary.

Most of her words, perhaps mercifully, were drowned out by Maggie's chugging engine as the four hijackers sped off towards the approaching Combine.

"So what's your plan, exactly?" Quarir asked, trying hard to prevent his teeth shaking out of his skull.

"We drive towards the APCs, get their attention, and then head to a different outpost," Zyke summarised, never taking his eyes off the potholed road. "With any luck the Gunship will follow us too."

"But won't you have the same problem?"

"How do you mean?"

Quarir darted upward as the van hurtled over a small hill. "Oof. I mean  _dammit look out for that boulder_  that you'll just be leading the Combine to a different base. New location, same massacre."

"Not here," Zyke smirked, "we're headed to E-34. The Dead Pass."

Nalore clicked his tongue. "Yeah you're definitely going to have to explain that. I'm not a local, remember?"

"Oh, sorry. E-34 is one of the few combat outposts we have and we set it up specifically for this kind of ambush. They've got RPGs, a minefield… everything."

"Sounds pretty impressive."

"It's a former military base. Few years back the Vorts short-circuited the gate and we ran amok. We must've used the place to take out five convoys by now…"

The Gunship's keening drew nearer. It had spotted them roaring towards the APCs and they were now locked in pursuit.

"Good, I, uh, think they've seen us," Nalore announced, face pressed up against the glass.

"They might lose interest if we just drive on by..."

"You want me to take a few shots at them?"

"Thanks for the offer, but no." Zyke laboriously wound his window down. "I've got an idea."

Even with the cockpit hatch open Nuri could barely hear any of the conversation, and that annoyed her. She was getting pelted with loose junk and even seated she kept sliding around yet she didn't dare throw any of the components away in case they were somehow essential for one of Grassy Knoll's projects. But Nuri promised herself that, when she got back, she'd make Kim install a few seats in this van, at gunpoint if necessary.

She felt as if she'd practically been abducted for this mission, but even with all the recent turmoil— Dmitri's loss, the Combine attack, the realisation that Zyke was yet another non-human- she couldn't get Eli Vance out of her mind. "Has he really been captured?" she asked Pyotr, certain the Vortigaunt would know who she was speaking of.

"One of my fellows has heard confirmation direct from his daughter. Eli Vance is essential to the liberation. The oppressor may never topple if we do not free him. But Freeman will make change."

"I'm sure he will," Nuri nodded faithfully, "but answer me this, why isn't anyone at the Knoll talking about him?"

"'Archibald' tells us that Mr. Zichekoam has given special orders," Pyotr stumbled over the name, unused to using such monikers to refer to his brethren, "He has forbidden the passing of information regarding The Free Man's arrival. We do not understand his reasoning, but no doubt he has good cause."

Nuri was about to comment on the bizarreness of a Resistance cell with little knowledge of its near-mythical "founder", but the steady thumping of pulse fire interrupted her.

Upfront, this hadn't escaped Nalore's notice. "We're getting a lot of sparks and smoke here Zyke."

"I know," the Rot snarled, ignoring the tinkling of ricocheting bullets, "just try and keep low…"

Even though Maggie was partially armoured Quarir knew that the combined firepower of the APCs and their supporting Gunship would tear them apart. He hoped Zyke knew what he was doing…

Again Quarir rocked forward as his apparently crazed colleague turned abruptly, exposing the vehicle's side to the rapidly nearing transports.

Gritting his teeth, Zyke raised his gauntleted hand and an orb of blinding, cerulean light flew from his palm and hit the leading APC in a burst of sparks, striking so forcibly that the vehicle rocked from the impact.

"If  _that_  hasn't got their attention nothing will," Zyke grinned, sending Maggie careering into a perfect bootlegger's reverse.

"I didn't know you could do that!" Nalore was awestruck. "Well, I knew the Zealot could, but I didn't think a Domarian would be strong enough!"

Zyke winced. "Damn… give me a gun any day."

Nalore hadn't taken his eyes off the bejewelled amplifier. "Guns need chargers and cores, but with that you can go for days!"

"I'm a telepath, yet even then it's given me a migraine. I don't know how the Arcadimaarians manage it."

"Hey, it's possible they just live with it. It'd explain why they're such psychotic bastards."


	17. Chapter 17

**Dead Pass**

"What the hell did he just do?"

"Zichekoam launched a focused psionic blast at the Combine transport," Pyotr told Nuri evenly.

"So he  _is_  like Quarir?"

"Previously he was. He is now a member of a distinct subspecies following his exposure to a mutagenic disease."

Nuri paused for a moment. "Does that happen all the time?"

"I am lead to believe that it is a rare occurrence, even by Domarian standards."

"So can anyone use that amplifier?"

"Theoretically, anyone. But only those who are psychically proficient can utilise it for extended periods.  _We_  have no need for them." Pyotr almost sounded smug.

"Come on, follow us you brainwashed assholes," Zyke hissed through clenched teeth, trying to spot some sign of the Combine forces in his wing mirror.

"Never thought I'd  _want_  the Combine on my tail," Nalore shook his head in amazement. "This job gets weirder and weirder."

"You see this as a job?" Zyke gave Quarir a disdainful look.

"Mission, then. I guess the big difference is that I'm not getting paid and it's slightly safer than attending a supercorporate business meeting."

"Hah."

Eventually the vehicles came into view, and Nalore punched the air. "There we go, all three of them!"

Zyke smiled in grim satisfaction. His little stunt had piqued the Combine's curiosity. There was no danger of them mistaking the amplifier's energy bolt for a more mundane weapon and thus they considered them a far more interesting target than a ramshackle patrol. Being captured and studied and dissected wasn't a good outcome either but at least they weren't being drowned under a continuous salvo of rockets.

"If they catch us," Zyke licked his arid lips, "they'll know Maintonon's involved. That might be enough to force them to invade and we'd achieve the exact opposite of what we set out to do."

Quarir nodded. And then he remembered the Combine Elite that had questioned him, and the Overwatch database he and Nuri had accessed. The Combine  _already knew_  they were on Earth. Smothering his guilty twinge, Quarir decided that it would be best not to tell Zyke about the interrogation.

Eventually the sand gave way to vast stretches of surprisingly smooth rock. It had been shaped by human hands. Nalore was prepared to bet that they were entering the so-called "Dead Pass".

Although the defaced "MILITARY PROPERTY: No Unauthorised Access" sign was a bit of a hint.

"The minefield is dead ahead," Zyke said casually. "We've removed the signposts and chain link fencing, they won't have any idea it's there."

Quarir spotted the flaw in this plan. "Uh, how are  _we_  meant to get past it?"

"Because we know that the... oh,  _shit_."

Nalore started That sounded ominous. "What? What is it?"

"The trail's gone!  _Shit!_ "

"What trail?"

"We left a few 'random' piles of junk around to mark out the points we swept clear. Damn it, I can't see the path!"

"We have planned for this!" Pyotr called through the viewing hatch, "'Archibald' has the Dead Pass schematics to hand! We shall direct you!"

Zyke swallowed, immensely grateful for both the Vortigaunt's sharp hearing and his species' innate communicative abilities, which put Zyke's short-range telepathy to shame. "All right," he slowed down, even though his instincts urged him to flee the pursuers. "Tell me where."

"Stick to the far left of the field. Be prepared to make a ninety degree turn to the right."

"Right." Sweat was beading on Zyke's forehead, which was disturbing, because as a Rot he had long since trained his body to stop sweating. Clearly the stress was getting to him.

Nalore found himself wondering just how powerful a pre-Combine mine was, and just how sturdy the pre-Combine van would prove if such an explosive device went off beneath it. Zyke was slowly edging Maggie through, and Quarir wasn't sure what he feared most, the mines or the advancing APCs.

"Turn now," Pyotr said, ever composed, ever assured. If he wasn't so useful the three humanoids would've found him quite irritating. After a few more moments of agonising progress, Pyotr had Zyke straighten up again, telling him to head towards a jutting spire of stone.

Nuri took advantage of their severely reduced speed and stood next to the hatch. "Surely they'll catch up with us if we're going this slowly…?"

"Somewhere up there there's a bunch of hidden bunkers," Zyke snapped, "fully manned with rocket-launching marksmen. If the mines don't get them, they'll…"

Two subdued clunking noises echoed from on high, barely audible above Maggie's steady rumbling. Gradually, a whooshing, windy, roaring sound filled their ears, and even Quarir guessed what was causing it...

The rockets thundered down ahead of the van, prompting nearby mines to detonate. The ground split all around them, sending Maggie spinning into the craggy, lopsided outcropping, sliding through a rain of scorched rock and earth.

The miniature boulders from the initial blast triggered a further cascade of explosions, like some deadly, deafening game of dominoes.

Nalore unfolded himself and dared to peak through the windscreen, and then was forced to display his surprisingly adequate reflexes when a third rocket struck the slanted lump of reddish stone, peppering the van with yet more debris.

"Is everyone okay?" Zyke asked, distinctly aware of the warm, wet liquid trickling into his eyes.

"Yes," said Nuri.

"We are intact," said Pyotr.

"What the hell is going on?" said Quarir, eventually daring to venture from out of his cramped foot space, huddled as he was below the windshield.

"Either the Resistance members in the base have gone mad, or they mistook us for Combine, or they've been killed and replaced." Zyke wiped the blood from his eyes, although he was more worried by how Kim would react when she found her windscreen cracked and smeared with red. "Either way, we're screwed."

* * *

The APCs drew to a halt at the edge of the minefield, or at least where they  _thought_  its outskirts were. Behind them the Gunship slowly circled the pass's entrance, perhaps not capable of flying through the narrow, machine-carved channel.

#34-C didn't know or care. He wasn't really capable of caring anymore, but even as a mundane human he wouldn't have found the particulars of the Synth's behaviour especially interesting. They were directed separately, and the Protectorate, as a rule, didn't concern itself with the Citadel-commanded Synth hordes.

Sometimes the Civil Protection would admit that they required aid, and request Gunship, Crab Mortar or even Strider support and, except in the rarest of cases, the Citadel would oblige, dispatching the closest relevant Synth unit.

But this time… the upper command levels of the Citadel had coldly informed them that a Gunship was to act as escort. #34-C didn't question the decision. It wasn't his place to do so, and the mere concept of dissent crippled him with confusion, but he couldn't logically calculate why one had been deemed necessary, as they'd merely been tracking a Resistance patrol. Admittedly it was an unusually large group of vehicles but he had been sure that the two APCs could've dealt with the terrorists admirably.

But now he had seen an associate of that patrol discharge unidentifiable energies at his transport. He was immensely pleased to have further confirmation of his commanders' tactical prowess. Not that he'd ever doubted, or even felt pleasure… but his implants ensured he felt… better, somehow, whenever he did what was expected of him.

He had no knowledge of drugs or addictive substances, but he was obsessed with approval, and thus he constantly and unwaveringly carried out instructions to the letter. Every soldier did.

#34-C disembarked. Four of his fellows stepped out of the APC behind him, and he was aware that the second transport had pulled up a short distance away, ready to spew out its own squadron.

He held a position of rank, a squad leader. 34-C knew that if he died in the glorious service of the Union #339a-C would take his place. And that was good and proper.

Other than to serve the Union, #34-C's only drive was self-preservation, and he was aware that #339a-C would find himself prematurely promoted if they dared to traverse the minefield.

The ten troops surveyed the scorched earth before them. The rogue van was concealed behind a blackened rock, and smoke poured from dozens of craters in the ground. It was further proof that, despite the illogicalness of the situation, they had indeed witnessed the base fire upon their targets.

#34-C had not been informed of the discovery of a Resistance outpost in this area, and he certainly hadn't been told about a successful raid on such a base.

"Autoimmunity," #35b-C barked into his headset, "Relaying: possible sighting of inner Resistance conflict. Code 2 alpha. Mission reference: coast-C41. Repeat: Autoimmunity…"

#35b-C was #34-C's equal in rank, and the head of the second squadron. "Autoimmunity" was the term for any sign of dissent in the Resistance's ranks, an occurrence the CPs cherished, as nothing undermined fury at the beneficent Union like interior conflicts. It was a rare happening, and the last time #34-C had been present at such an event a gaggle of demonstrators had come to blows when trying to decide on their next move. Launching rockets at each other was a whole new level.

"Affirmative, we will await further instruction," #35b-C terminated his Overwatch link. "Command has no records, rules out CP involvement. We are to setup a defensive perimeter and blockade this pass."

"Acknowledged." #34-C turned to his attentive charges, and his fellow squad-leader did the same. "Squad, set up turret perimeter. 20-mD from this position. Go."

The squadron doubled back to their APCs in an orderly fashion, quickly returning with compact packages of black metal.

The two officers watched their respective squads set up a line of defence across the pass's breadth, unfolding the packages to reveal autonomous, tripod-mounted firing systems. Each turret sported a snub-nosed, lesser version of the Union-produced pulse rifle: it didn't possess quite the same level of firepower, as it launched tiny superheated flechettes as opposed to the larger rounds that filled a rifle's magazine. But a high-capacity magazine and power source ensured their worth as a staple defensive measure against everything from antlions to rebellious citizens.

"That will suffice," said a voice.

The two soldiers had, at one point, been human. They still were, to some degree, it was just that emotion and irrelevant memory had been sheared off through frequent visits to the Enrichment Facilities. But even though their minds were awash with propaganda and filled with artificial components, they were still capable of experiencing shock.

They spun to face the speaker, pulse rifles pointing at his head. That's when they realised the head was at a different height than usual.

Soldiers were six-foot-one-inch tall. That was the rule; the optimum size, determined after extensive tests. Modification was sometimes required.

He was almost seven foot, and he was dressed similarly to a member of the Elite. Helmet with a single viewing port, white uniform with slightly different markings… but there were not-so-subtle differences. Chitinous plates were interlaced with the padded cloth, and it was difficult to tell what was armour and what was part of him. He looked like some sort of human Synth.

"I am Forty. I have been deployed to support you. I was expressing approval of your defences." The voice sounded like it had been filtered by a standard-issue CP facemask, yet it had a slightly musical quality, almost whistling. It sounded more… organic.

They hesitated. Forty. That was all. No other identifiers. No squad code, no location reference, no batch number. He was one of the originals.

"We had been told that all of the Benefited were supporting the search for Freeman," #35b-C stated flatly, although the statement itself hinted at some well-hidden suspicion.

"Your mission involves Freeman," Forty responded. "And so I am here."

#34-C lowered his rifle. "Do you have additional instructions, sir?"

"Affirmative..."

Forty moved closer, strange clunking sounds accompanying his every movement. He loomed above the two soldiers, and a small, human part of them recoiled in fright.

"Do not get in my way."


	18. Chapter 18

**Uninvited**

Zichekoam kicked his door open and stepped onto the sand. He did this quickly, so that he didn't even have time to contemplate the possibility of a landmine being under his feet.

After a second he realised he hadn't been blown to pieces. Accepting that Pyotr had forwarded the correct base schematics, he cautiously gestured for his entourage to do the same. They remained where they were.

"We'll be blown to pieces," Quarir said stubbornly, shaking his head at the Rot's continued attempts to lure him out.

"There are no mines around the rock," Zyke informed him coldy. "Come on!"

"To hell with the mines!" Nalore snapped. "I'm talking about the Combine!"

Pyotr slowly lowered himself to the ground. "We are well sheltered here. If we traverse the secret route we can escape the field without harm. The oppressor will not risk following us on foot."

Nuri gingerly followed the Vortigaunt. "Secret route?"

"I wasn't aware that there  _was_  a secret route…" Zyke began.

"That is because it is a secret," Pyotr stated. "The passage in question was sealed long before we claimed this installation as our own."

"Whoever's up there can't shoot at what they can't see," Quarir concluded with a mixture of logic and cowardice, "I don't like the idea of going out in the open."

"You will not be. This 'rock' is in fact a concealed entrance. Hence its convenient placing in the centre of an empty canyon."

Quarir stepped down. "All right, show us."

Pyotr bowed and stepped towards the craggy mass. On reaching a nondescript protrusion he stopped, and began tapping the sandy outcropping with all three hands. After ten seconds of dull sounds, a metallic note rang out.

Zyke peered at the lumpy stone. "You found something?"

"This is the entrance," Pyotr declared triumphantly, pointing at the wall.

At first Quarir could see nothing, but eventually a small rectangle became apparent, even amongst the network of cracks. The door had been cleverly surfaced with rock from its surroundings, but much of it was little more than painted metal. Looking at the faded colouring Nalore couldn't help wonder how they'd possibly missed it.

"Okay, that's good," Quarir grinned. "Now let's open it."

"As we say, it has been sealed for many years now."

Nalore gritted his teeth. "Oh, great. There's about an inch of steel there! I'm a bion, not a demolition mech."

"We did not say it could not be opened," Pyotr reprimanded him. "Only that it may take time."

Quarir scratched his stubbly chin. "Well…"

"Oh, just let him work," Nuri snapped impatiently. "We'll get nowhere otherwise."

The Domarian opened his mouth to make a biting retort, but thought better of it. As always, she had a point. Being right was her most irritating habit.

Pyotr faced the stone and inclined his head downward, his two forehands together as if in prayer. After a moment they shuddered, greenish sparks forcing them apart, and he whirled them in small circles, trailing dancing, emerald electricity.

Before anyone had a chance to guess his intentions, a blinding arc of lightning leapt from his leathery fingers and tore the door in half.

"You said it would take a while!"

"We said that it could take time. We were uncertain if that would work."

"Good god," Zyke breathed, taking in the hatch's dripping, molten metal as the red dust settled. He rubbed his gauntleted hand self-consciously. "And I thought  _we_  had some firepower."

"Our innate abilities are very useful, but they lack variety," Pyotr told him modestly. "Although we are yet to meet an adversary that could take our attacks without harm."

"I can imagine," Nuri murmured. She watched the cooling door and wondered, not for the first time, what she'd got herself into.

She found an answer quite quickly, although it wasn't very helpful of her subconscious to offer "a world of trouble" as a response.

* * *

Ny now Quarir and Nuri were used to gloomy caverns and crumbling tunnels. They'd tried the light switches, just in case, but the passage lacked both illumination and ventilation. The air was heavy and difficult to breathe.

Nuri felt that she was the only one with a problem: Quarir's bionics seemed to keep him going and for all she knew Zyke and Pyotr had twenty lungs between them. The Rot and the Vortigaunt had taken the lead, using the cold radiance of the Arcadimaarian gauntlet and the marginally less sinister electric "candle" atop Pyotr's fingertip to light the way.

"There's a lot of rubble in here," Quarir said, stepping over a chunk.

"I think they were dislodged by the explosions up top," Zyke called back, his voice echoing through the subterranean passageway. "They set off quite the chain reaction."

"I just hope they haven't made this place unstable," Nuri murmured.

"So do I now," Nalore shuddered. "Thanks for introducing me to the possibility of being crushed by tons of rock."

"You're welcome."

"It'd be the third time, come to think of it. Fourth if you—"

"—count the time you were hit by an ornamental boulder at an art exhibition. You already mentioned that."

* * *

"It's not that I didn't expect to find bodies," Quarir croaked, "but this is just… just…"

"Morbidly violent?" Zyke offered.

"Yeah," Quarir whispered. "I think even someone like Voln would've drawn the line here."

The scene within the bunker was a bloodbath. Quarir wouldn't use such a term lightly but every surface was red.

Corpses, all mutilated in a variety of hideous ways, were spread-eagled all around the control room. Broken machines, all warped dials and broken bulbs, mingling with the gory remains.

Although Zyke and Pyotr were unquestionably shocked, it was nothing they hadn't seen before, one being a century-old mutant and the other a coterminous veteran. Yet for Quarir and Nuri the sight was muted, as if they couldn't quite take in what had happened. The horror was unfathomable.

"What happened here?" Quarir asked aloud, aware of the nauseous heaving of his guts.

"None of our brethren were here to record this," Pyotr said shamefully. "We had pressed for a Vortigaunt to be present at all bases. If only we had been here..."

"From the looks of things you couldn't have done anything," Zyke told him. "Don't beat yourself up."

"What I don't understand," Nuri began, feeling chilled despite the stuffy heat, "is why there are so many Combine bodies too…"

And that was a mystery. The Dead Pass had come to earn its name in the most macabre of ways. Resistance members and uniformed CPs had been slain and maimed alike.

"It's not zombies," Zyke breathed deeply, "because they'd have eaten the bodies and, come to think of it, us by now."

"And it's nothing to do with the Combine, because even they wouldn't slaughter their own troops," Nuri began, and then she remembered the panic of the Protectorate when the Mortar Synths laid City 11 to waste. "At least, not so enthusiastically."

"What does that leave then?" Quarir murmured, counting the agents of demise off on his fingers, "How many psychotic factions are we dealing with here?"

"Particularly killers who can burn like this," Pyotr interjected, bending down to touch a body. Her clothes had been seared to her flesh, her left side a carbonised mass of charcoal. "I can think of no Combine weapon that could produce such an effect."

"Like I said, who then? The Combine are the only… aliens… here…" Quarir trailed off, paling.

"Plasma burns," Zyke emoted. "The Combine doesn't use plasma weapons, because they're too difficult to mass-produce."

"And the… the Arcadimaarians have fusion-pulse dispersers, and don't see the point of plasma guns." Quarir moistened his lips with a tongue that was trying to bond to the roof of his mouth. "So that leaves…"

A plasma bolt streaked towards him.

* * *

Forty looked up. After a moment his eyes verified what his aural scanners had already detected- a plasma discharge, the heat signature dimly visible through the many feet of rock that enclosed the hilltop base.

The discharge told him two things. Firstly, it explained why the Union had lost contact with the CP contingent dispatched to deal with this Resistance cell. Secondly, it told Forty that the Domarian was in danger. If that interloper died, Forty would not be allowed to carry out his primary objective. He would be denied the chance to take on Freeman. He would not be allowed to intercept him at Nova Prospekt.

That was unacceptable.

Forty strode towards the minefield, ignoring the confused and cautioning radio chatter of his inferiors.

* * *

Quarir had half-expected the shot, and that's why it took a chunk out of the bunker wall and not his torso.

He quickly recovered from the dive, taking the aggressor by surprise with his deft dodging. Within a split-second Nalore was overwhelmed with relief, because despite his brush with superheated death the gunman  _wasn't_ , as he'd secretly dreaded since his arrival on Earth, an Enforcer. That went against everything Maintonon had told him, but he feared Security's reprisal should the organisation ever catch up with him. They were a group that had never stopped hunting him, and an Enforcer, an armour-clad cyborg assassin, was almost as dangerous as a Security Mech. Almost.

Of course that still meant that some miscellaneous Domarian with a modern plasma rifle was trying to kill him, but that was still a marked improvement over facing an elite Security operative.

He took aim but Quarir's riposte of buckshot harmlessly scattered across the concrete where his attacker had stood moments before.

By now Nuri had her Arcadimaarian-fused revolver at the ready, and she took a position up opposite Quarir. He felt, not for the first time, immensely grateful for her support but the plasma gunner had already vanished, retreating down the corridor opposite.

"Who the hell was that?" Zyke snapped. "A friend of yours?"

"He's responsible for this, whoever he is," Quarir replied, totally missing the taunt. "Come on, we need to get after him."

"He's got a plasma gun, we've got a handful of ballistic and pulse weaponry. Not smart."

"You've got a better idea?"

"No, but all our options are shit."

"Just thought you'd better point that out, huh?"

A lance of blinding red flashed out of the doorway. A swivel-chair standing inches away from the two Domarians was obliterated in a brief crackle of flame.

"He's not running," Nuri muttered. She didn't feel particularly happy with the knowledge that the only people with any knowledge of their attacker were happier arguing than cooperating.

"That's because he knows we're vulnerable," Zyke snarled, taking up a position behind a collapsed bank of machinery. "God damn it…"

Nalore got a good look at the man as he leaned around the corner for his third shot. He was wearing the heavy, synthetic padding favoured by bounty hunters and general lowlifes but the purple-haired madman didn't suit black. Considering both this fashion crime and his genocidal record, Nalore didn't hesitate in blasting the man in the chest.

The killer staggered, a faint blossom of blood spreading across the dark cloth of his jumpsuit, but after the initial impact he managed to right himself.

As Quarir realised that he wouldn't be the only Domarian in the world with bionics, he also came to terms with the fact that his mismanaged shotgun had run dry, and that he was facing a grinning maniac with a plasma gun…

There was a thunderous sound and a flash of green, and an arc of lightning slammed the killer backward, his latest plasma bolt going astray. He hit the wall, cracking the stone, and the broken body slowly slid downward.

"We wanted him alive!" Quarir snapped.

"Now we'll never know what was going on," Zyke growled, looking at Pyotr accusingly.

"The alternative was allowing Quarir Nalore to die," Pyotr said calmly.

"They may sound ungrateful but they know why you did it," Nuri said sternly. "They can't help being idiots."

"Look, I'm really glad you did what you did," Quarir said, forcing a note of calm into his voice as he turned, "but we really needed him... holy shit he shot a hole in you!"

Zyke dismissed Quarir's quivering finger and his look of abject horror. "Big deal. It'll heal pretty soon."

Nuri saw that there was a fist-sized hole punched through Zyke's solar plexus. She examined the wound in awe. "Is that because you're a Rot?"

"Damn right it is," Quarir shivered. "A shot like that would've torn a bion in half."

"Unless he was Voln," Zyke corrected, casually pulling his burnt cloak across the smoking injury.

"Yeah, well, Voln is Voln. He doesn't count."

"Who the hell  _is_  Voln?" Nuri glowered. "Or is this just yet another incomprehensible snippet of Domarian pop culture?"

"We have heard of this Voln from our representatives at Colony 351," Pyotr added.

"Yeah, about that," Quarir began, "You never did explain how the hell are there any Vortigaunts at Colony 351—?"

"Forget it," Zyke called out. "Take a look at this."

Quarir went over to the black-clothed corpse, trying to ignore the fact that he could see straight through Zichekoam's back. "What?"

"This is a Mercenary weapon, standard issue," the Rot told him thoughtfully, pressing the chrome-plated plasma gun into Quarir's hands.

"So is he a Merc or just some psycho who got hold of a Merc weapon? How the hell would he even get here?"

"I don't know," Zyke said softly, looking down at the last, shocked expression of the mass-murderer. "I'd have thought Maintonon would have to be involved. He couldn't be here because of coincidence."

"Yeah, well I can't see Maintonon sending someone down to kill us when we're meant to be working for him."

"Well,  _I_  thought you had something to do with this at first."

" _What_?"

"Only briefly. I was wondering about other Domarians and I thought, hey, there's only you and me, you had to be behind it."

"I never suspected  _you_."

"Really?" Zyke sounded touched.

"Nah, I did. In fact I thought you were a potential murderer the moment I saw you."

"Have I mentioned how bizarre I find Domarian conversational habits?" Pyotr interjected loudly. "There are other things for us to be investigating."

"Like what?" Nuri asked politely, before either of her two counterparts could say something they'd regret.

"Like, Nuri Dekker," the Vort continued patiently, "how we could be attacked with rockets when everyone here is dead."


	19. Chapter 19

**Left Unsaid**

#34-C and #35b-C watched Forty stride towards the minefield. Although they had initially voiced doubts alongside the rest of their transhuman platoon, they'd quickly accepted that the Elite must know what he was doing. After all, it was pointless to dispute the orders of the beneficent Union. Had they ever been wrong before?

Clearly Forty would know, through logic or sophisticated scanning methods, which parts of the minefield were safe to traverse.

The Elite stepped on a mine. The explosion showered the surrounding area with clods of earth and rock. And a moment later he stepped out off the dust, unscathed. Forty walked on.

* * *

Quarir checked the body thoroughly but there was nothing more of interest. The would-be assassin's clothes were free of markings or regimental trimmings and his pockets were suspiciously clear of security passes, currency or confessions signed in triplicate.

He examined the plasma rifle- no serial number, no squad identifier. So even though it was a Merc weapon it wasn't actually aligned to one of their numerable units, and thus this wasn't a "legal" contract killing by the Mercenary League or the Vigilante Movement.

But if Maintonon hadn't played a part in getting this man here, who had…?

"Pyotr's got a point," Zichekoam patted his fellow Domarian's shoulder. "We need to find out what's going on in here. We'll answer everything else later."

Nalore let the scorched body flop back down on to the floor and went after the three of them. He carried the newly acquired rifle over his shoulder, the chromed plasma weapon contrasting oddly with the corroded shotgun he was still using as a crutch.

"This corridor is very… empty," Nuri announced pointlessly.

"All the combat must have taken place in the lobby," Zyke muttered. "That bastard must have shot the lot of them. They were too busy fighting each other to notice him and by the time they did it was too late."

"Yes. Their hostility was their downfall," Pyotr declared solemnly.

Zyke tried the door- it was locked. This didn't surprise him in the slightest. "Pyotr? Can you overload the locking mechanism?"

Pyotr inspected the hatch. "We are unsure. We could attempt to do so, but of course there are no guarantees."

"Hey, you didn't ask if I could knock it down," Quarir piped up.

"Well you can't, can you?" Zyke stated. "If I can't, I doubt you can…"

Nuri sighed. "If anyone was actually paying attention, you might have seen that the switch on the wall next to me is marked 'Open' in Russian."

There was an embarrassed pause, during which Nuri pulled the switch, which clunked satisfyingly and sent the hatch zuh-zhumming sideways.

"So whereabouts are we?" Quarir asked, carefully avoiding making eye contact with Nuri.

"I think this room directly overlooks the canyon," said Zyke. "Must be the bunker with the firing ports.

Three pointed, razor-thin tripods held a trio of rocket launchers aloft, a strange mix of Combine and Earth technology. The hybrid turrets were trained on the canyon floor, angled so they could aim out of the narrow firing slits set into the walls. They twitched to and fro, straining to find targets.

"It appears we have stumbled across the most burning issue," said Pyotr.

"Turn around slowly," said a voice.

Vortigaunts didn't shock or scare easily, if at all, and thus Pyotr did indeed turn around slowly, and directed a cheerful "greetings" to the room's lone occupant.

For a moment the woman stared at the Vort, and then she relaxed. "Oh… it's just one of you guys."

Hearing a new voice spurred Pyotr's ever-ready companions into action, and the three of them barged in, a variety of weapons raised.

Pyotr waved his torso's central arm irritably and the various implements of death were lowered, averting yet another bloodbath.

"What's going on?" the woman asked cautiously.

"What the…" Quarir gaped at the newcomer. "That's a Sentinel pistol! Are you an Enforcer? Or just a standard guard? I mean, no one mentioned anything to me!"

"What?"

"I'm Nuri," said Nuri, ignoring Quarir's small panic attack. "You are…?"

"Annie," the woman answered tentatively, wondering if Nalore was having a fit. "I got trapped in here about four hours back."

"I mean, hell, I don't know whether to be grateful or terrified," Quarir continued, "You here with Maintonon's authorisation or are you just trying to track me down?"

"Is… is he okay?"

"Oh, just ignore him," Nuri assured her. "He's insane."

"He's right though," Zyke interrupted. "That's a Sentinel plasma pistol you're holding there miss. Standard-issue sidearm of the Domarian Security Service. Incidentally do  _not_  fire it, as it's full of defence mechanisms."

"What?" Annie repeated.

"These two men are representatives of another species seeking to thwart the Combine oppressor," Pyotr began. "You are in possession of one of their weapons. They merely assumed you were also one of their kind."

"Nice summary there Pyotr," Zyke slapped the Vortigaunt on the back. "But let's let Annie here explain everything, starting with how she got that pistol."

"I mean, damn, I've gone a million miles and so far—"

"Shush, Quarir."

"I just found it in here," Annie said in frustration. She held the weapon out for inspection; a black-plated pistol, so large that it demanded the use of both hands. "I saw all the bodies, I headed into here, I found this pistol and then, well, someone slammed the door on me."

Zyke examined the door; the control switch on this side of the hatch had been torn from its mounting, leaving a socket full of tiny gears. "Obviously deliberate sabotage," he announced.

"Okay," Quarir took a deep breath. "I think it's safe to assume our friend outback locked you in."

"He must have thought you were an Enforcer, like Quarir here." Zyke went over to the turrets. "He obviously didn't think he could face you. You're lucky you found that pistol, otherwise he'd have just killed you on the spot."

"Look, who's 'he'? The man who locked me...?"

"A Domarian bounty hunter who I was forced to eliminate," Pytor said flatly. "He is of little relevance, although Quarir Nalore and Zichekoam are obsessing over his origins."

"So the Combine got here first," Zyke chewed his lip, examining the swivelling launchers while taking every care not to touch them. "They must have raided when the patrol was out, broke into the armoury, used artillery stands to mount the RPGs, then the patrol comes back, they fight, and some bastard murders them all. Hmm."

"I've been trying to switch them off. They fired a  _lot_  of rockets about twenty minutes back." Annie licked her lips. "Look, are you two  _really_  aliens…?"

"That was us," Nuri muttered. "They fired at us. I wonder if there's anyway we can reprogram them."

"Oh, hell," Zyke staggered backward. "Quarir? Come and have a look at this…"

Nalore went over to the Rot, who was peering forlornly at a strange cabinet that dominated the bunker's far wall. "What is it?"

"That's just the locker where I found this gun," Annie said. "It's empty now except for a lot of dust."

"This isn't a locker, this is a teleport module." Zyke held his head in his hands.

"What's that?"

"Just some miscellaneous Domarian technology," Nuri snapped. She was beginning to think of Annie as a female equivalent of Charlie. "They do this a lot, they'll eventually explain."

"Look, only the Combine warp through the dimensions themselves like the Uclasions used to." Zyke leaned against the metal module. "Domarian teleporters break matter down and reassemble it later: and that kills living things. You can send people down, but they'd come out the other end as corpses. So we send people down with matter transference beams: basically, we throw them through a series of angled magnetic fields at the speed of light."

"And your point is?"

"My point, Nuri, is that it's general practise to teleport down a beacon or capsule so we have something to aim at when we transfer a squad or individual. This dust," he sighed. "This dust much have been a Security officer. My contact. The man who kept me waiting for information for three years... because this module malfunctioned and killed him."

* * *

Quarir wasn't sure what to say, so he did what came naturally, and sounded off a few expletives.

"You were meant to meet me, and I was meant to meet… whoever this guy was," said Zyke. "I don't know how or why this happened, but without a contact I don't know how we can go ahead with our mission."

"Ah, wait a moment, you just said 'we'. I wasn't told anything about this," Quarir waved a finger under the other man's nose. "You're telling me that Maintonon gave you a half-decent briefing before dumping you on this shithole of a planet?"

"Hey!" Nuri was incensed. "It'd be much nicer without the Combine around…"  
" _Exactly!_ " Quarir shouted. "But it's not a world to that computer, oh no, it's just a big rocky pawn. Three years! Screwing around for three years, while the people here suffer and die!"

Annie backed away from the two Domarians. "Would someone tell me what the hell is going on?"

"We're getting out of here for a start, and then we'll join up with the Resistance proper." Quarir faced up to Zyke. "Which is what we should've done in the first place!"

"Look, I've told you once," Zyke snarled, "I don't know much more than you do. I'm just sitting here waiting for clarification. This is the real world, I can't give you a quick answer and solve everything. The Combine are always on the move! We scout out areas, get information about them from a lot of sources, and  _then_  act."

"You're still defending him... it?  _It_  left us here! Probably just to die!"

"Do you think I  _like_  being in this situation? Do you really think I like struggling by every single day when I know we could fix all this with one fleet? But okay, go ahead, march outside there and do whatever the hell it is you think we should do. Go forth and fix the universe, Mr. Hero! I'm sure you're more than a match for a few squadrons of CPs and one measly Gunship!"

"The turrets are doing something," Nuri warned.

"She is correct," Pyotr added unnecessarily. "They appear to be tracking something."

"I'll tell you what we need to do. But you won't like it," Zyke steadied himself. "I'm going to tell you the backup scenario  _my_  briefing outlined. Maintonon calls these his 'contingencies', but this isn't a plan B, more like a plan K. Everything's gone wrong," Zyke moaned. "Everything."

The three rocket turrets let loose hell.

* * *

#34-C saw the munitions streak downward from their hidden firing position up in the rocky heights.

Forty was a small target, but the Combine technicians had made their improvised turrets with great care and skill… only for the targeting system to be damaged during the fighting. And thus Forty found himself in the middle of a minefield with explosives raining down on him.

Parts of Forty that should've vanished long ago screamed in shock and pain even as his mental implants fought them back, but the part of Forty that dominated his psyche and had brought him where he was today reared up, and found that even the cold, calculating machinery melded with his brain agreed with the overpowering instinct deep in the frigid void that passed for his soul…

He couldn't take another hit like that. Ally or not, the artillery instalment had to go.

Forty produced a double-barrelled pulse weapon from his back and took aim.

#34-C saw three orbs of light thrum upward in quick succession…

* * *

Quarir had limited knowledge of Combine technology, but some things stuck in the mind. He knew all about their penchant for pulse weaponry, for example, and the physics-defying Distortion Cannons wielded by their Striders.

Not everyone had heard of their Dark Energy tech. It was a power source, and the ever-resourceful Universal Union was capable of packaging it in little magnetically charged spheres..

Quarir didn't know whether they were plasma based, or something to do with antimatter or fusion. He just knew that, when he heard the humming and saw the approaching light, that someone was going to die.

He bellowed and pulled Nuri down, and he was pretty sure everyone else got the message. The first orb smashed into a rocket launcher aside and it disappeared in a stream of white particles.

The second flashed through the open door and caused chaos by bouncing throughout the lobby.

The third ricocheting throughout the firing bunker; another launcher fell, an elderly table vanished, and the teleport module crumpled as part of its wall was vaporized.

Nalore's heart sank as their main hope of escape vanished, but that paled against all else when the two orbs detonated beside Zyke.

"No!" he screamed. It was a stupid thing to say, even stupider for being the last thing Zyke would've heard. But he needed to know. He needed to know everything. He needed to know if Zichekoam knew what to do, and if he'd taken everything Quarir had said seriously when he'd just been kidding

"God damn," Nalore fell to his knees.

"Quarir," Nuri said with soft urgency, "we have to go. Look at him. He's beyond help."

"He's not like us! He can take it. He can sort this out… he can sort everything out…"

"Quarir, he's been roasted! It's a miracle he wasn't atomised but he's  _dead_  and we have to get out of here!"

"There's no way out," Quarir snarled, refusing to look at Zyke's charred face. "There's only the one entrance, and that'll be full of Combine now."

"A cavern lies beneath us," Pyotr said softly. "We can lead you there. Zichekoam was correct, we have access to this facility's layout back at the windmill. There is a tunnel nearby."

"Come on, Quarir," Nuri whispered, helping him to his feet.

Annie risked standing up. "What is—?"

"If you don't stay quiet," she warned, "I'm going to throw you out that window."


	20. Chapter 20

**Anthill**

Zichekoam's gauntlet flopped against Quarir's thigh as he ran. He had found it himself at the Overwatch base, and it had originally belonged to an Arcadimaarian, but Quarir would forever think of it as Zyke's gauntlet.

It was fairly common practise for the Domarian Legion to withhold orders until the last possible minute, to minimise security breaches and the leaking of invaluable information. But with two potential contacts dead, Quarir didn't know what to do.

And look at Dmitri. He was dead. The Russian had held the Combine up, even though it cost him his life, to save Quarir and his friends. And why? Quarir had no idea what he was doing. He'd let people  _think_  he knew what he was doing, that he was all part of one of Maintonon's epic, galaxy-changing schemes, but he was utterly clueless. Pathetic. Pointless…

Nuri heard the metal glove jangle as it hung from Nalore's belt, and she knew what was going through the man's mind. As Zyke had so accurately put it,  _everything_  had gone wrong.

"Come on, Quarir," she repeated, trying to give him a reassuring pat on the arm. He didn't respond, and Nuri merely sighed deeply, and continued to keep up her punishing pace.

True to his word, Pyotr had found the passageway, and they'd followed the neglected corridor downward until it thinned out into a dank tunnel cut through the bare rock, with no signs of shoring or other structural supports. If the map hadn't said otherwise they wouldn't have thought human hands had ever touched it.

Pyotr seemed incapable of complaint, but Nuri longed to see sunlight, to get out of the humid caverns before she degenerated into some sort of troglodyte. A quiet, uncomplaining Quarir, however, was just unnatural.

Annie seemed to be trying to make up for this, however, with a constant stream of whining, panting and wheezing.

Pyotr led the way, because as he'd so wisely pointed out, there was every chance the CP contingent was in hot pursuit. He wasn't in the most talkative mood, but Pyotr was a competent guide, and possessed the seemingly limitless stamina of Vortigaunts the galaxy over.

Nuri noted that Pyotr hadn't chimed in with any philosophy recently. It was quite uncharacteristic. He was being very tight-mandibled.

Something chittered in the distance. An inquisitive chirrup.

The truth hit Nuri like a bombshell. "We're not running from CPs, are we?" she hissed into what could only be called Pyotr's ear. "This is an Antlion nest."

"They are far below us," Pyotr informed her coolly. "Nevertheless, we move on for safety's sake. This is spawning season for the Antlions, and we should not linger. Our greatest philosopher put it thus..."

"I knew that was coming," Nuri said, relaxing.

"What are you talking about?" Annie asked.

"Your incessant questions will be your undoing," Pyotr muttered.

"I sincerely hope they will be," Nuri murmured in solidarity.

"What?"

Eventually light appeared. Rather confusingly, it was shining from below. Nuri recalled how high up the "Dead Pass" facility had been and wondered just how far they'd walked in their mad flight from the forces of the Combine and the hordes of insects far beneath them.

"About time," Quarir sniffed, speaking for the first time in what felt like aeons.

Sand filled the lowest curve of the tunnel, forming a pale carpet that clung to every conceivable surface. Outside, once their eyes adapted to the sudden shift of light, they could see strange shapes moulded from the dunes, spires and swirls of hardened sand that jutted out from the ground and protruded from the rocks around the cave's mouth.

Pyotr grabbed Nalore's shoulder as he prepared to stand out. "Do you see the wooden planking, Quarir Nalore?"

"Sure I do. What about it?"

"Walk upon it, and not upon the sand. Trust us on this."

Quarir squinted at the weatherworn slats that formed a disjointed but usable path through the sandbanks.

"This is Antlion territory, isn't it?" Annie announced loudly. "I think someone mentioned that once."

Nuri shot her a venomous glance but Quarir nodded in understanding. "I know all about Antlions. I learned  _something_  in my damn briefing."

"Oh," Nuri said, slightly embarrassed. "Good!"

"Yeah, I gather they're quite big," he held his hands apart. "Must be at five inches long. Wouldn't like to get mobbed by suckers that size."

"Uh, yes," Nuri said hurriedly. "Five inches. Yes."

* * *

"Thumpers, eh?" Quarir studied the distant, piston-like towers. "Interesting idea."

Nuri just nodded.

"Used to have a bit of a threllite problem back home," Quarir continued. "Vibrations didn't bother  _them_ , although loud noises sent them packing a lot of the time."

Nuri nodded again. She didn't know what a threllite was and she didn't particularly care but she certainly didn't want to draw attention to her ignorance on the subject, as Nalore was very likely to launch into an entirely unwanted explanation.

"What's a threllite?" asked Annie, a woman who had just earned herself pole position in Nuri's rankings of people who annoyed her, somehow overtaking even Charlie and Quarir himself.

"Weird little vermin that run around eating everything," Nalore said dismissively. Nuri relaxed. Apparently they were a topic of little interest to him so they wouldn't have to listen to one of his anecdotes...

"How do you get rid of them then?" Annie persisted, upgrading herself to an engraved plaque atop Nuri's hate list.

The rest of the perilous journey across loose rocks and rickety scaffolds crumbled before the sheer boredom of hearing Quarir relate, in horribly petty detail, every instance that he or even his most distant acquaintances had encountered a threllite.

The thumper hit the ground, throwing up a huge cloud of sand to the accompaniment of an earth-shaking thud. It was monolithic and clearly of Combine origin, a metal column that slowly rose and then descended suddenly at regular intervals.

"Scares the hell out of me, never mind a couple of little bugs," Nalore muttered, annoyed that his epic tales of threllite-evasion had been interrupted. "Seems a bit overkill to me."

"Ha, ha, yes," Nuri said, sounding forced even to herself. Despite Annie's general incompetence and Pyotr's dislike for deceit, they'd managed to keep Quarir thinking of the Antlions as small pests rather than colossal man-eaters. Something dangerous enough to avoid agitating, but not threatening enough to fear.

"There are residences beyond the thumper," Pyotr intoned. "Let us make haste."

Nuri relaxed slightly at the reassuring sight of the small village. "About time. I was beginning to think the whole coast was deserted."

"It'd be better for us if it was," Annie moaned, "I just saw a CP walk past that shack. I bet they've garrisoned the place."

They all looked, and they all saw the Combine troops strolling leisurely through the settlement. A lone APC was visible, parked between the two largest buildings. Judging by the thin wires snaking out of it, it seemed to be serving as a power source for the interior outposts.

Nuri gnawed her lip. "They've certainly stepped up their security."

"Don't see why," Annie clicked her tongue. "There's been no Resistance activity."

Nuri gave her a look. "How long were you locked in that bunker? Freeman's here. The Combine are going crazy trying to find him."

"Yeah, even I know that," Quarir interjected. "Not that I see what all the fuss is about."

"The Freeman brought balance even as he unleashed chaos," Pyotr snapped. The usually calm Vortigaunt sounded quite aggressive. "He bested our finest warriors and freed us. The Combine have good reason to fear him, Quarir Nalore."

"I'm sure they do, but I didn't understand half of that." Quarir winced and tried to rub some life back into his twice injured leg. "Let's drop the philosophy and see if we can pick up some transport."

"We'd have to go over the sand," Nuri warned, "because they may well have snipers. And that would set the Antlions moving."

"Meh, I've twisted the muscle, broken the bone, and filled it with poison," Quarir shrugged. "A few little bugs won't worry this leg. C'mon."

It would be wrong to call the Antlions unintelligent, even though they were driven entirely by pheromone-fuelled instinct. It was quite true that their lives were dictated by genetically programmed instructions, but compared to Earth's resident insects they were positive geniuses.

Small vibrations on the surface of their sprawling territories drove them mad with aggression- because it meant intruders had dared to enter their domain. But huge impacts such as those caused by the Combine's thumpers filled them with an emotion that could only be called fear, as they presumed that some colossal, unstoppable predator was trespassing on their land.

The CP technician watched, horrified, as the APC's power source inexplicably began to fail, and the thumper slowed its rhythmic pounding, eventually coming to a complete halt.

And so, with the settlement's only defence abruptly stopping its machinations, the Antlions grew curious, as once the heavier seismic activity died down they could sense far gentler motion above their labyrinthine nest.

Neither the alien insects or the Protectorate's troops understood what was happening. They didn't appreciate the significance of the gold-tinged interference swamping the computer displays, or the rhombus-bordered eye that persistently flickered in and out between the error-riddled broadcasts.

The sandy ground split as three dozen insectoid killing machines burst out of their burrows.

Quarir almost lost his footing, but he recovered quickly, hanging on to the rock he'd been preparing to jump from as if his life depended on it. Which, of course, it did.

"Those are beffing  _huge_ ," he breathed, "how come they've got so big?"

Shots were fired, but for once they weren't aimed at Quarir and his entourage. Two Antlions fell to the combined fire of a pair of CPs, but immediately afterwards a single leaping insect pinned both the soldiers to the floor and began meticulously eviscerating them.

From this distance the colourful bugs seemed to be part beetle, part locust. They moved so fast that to Quarir they were little more than streaks of colour, blurring past their victims in a maelstrom of razor-tipped limbs and slicing mandibles.

"Maybe they're just bigger than we thought," Nuri lied guiltily. But Nalore wasn't paying attention. He was watching the carnage with morbid fascination.

Three Antlions adroitly vaulted over the APC and landed atop a terrified CP squadron who'd been trying to use the vehicle as cover; within a few seconds, they were mangled corpses in a sea of red-tinged sand.

"Shouldn't we run?" Annie squeaked, noting the ease with which the insects were picking off the surprised soldiers.

"I say we wait," Nuri murmured. "And then take whatever's left. If we're lucky the APC and a lot of the equipment will still be in one piece."

"Still don't get why these ones are so big," Quarir muttered, still unwilling to accept that his information had been flawed, "I mean, I know that there are really big ones, you know, workers and fighters, but those don't match the descriptions…"

A wooden shack exploded as an organic, chitinous tank emerged from beneath it.

"Well, that one does. Knew I'd see something familiar eventually…"

The Antlion Guard adjusted its powerful forelimbs, steadied its four rear legs, and then charged towards them.


	21. Chapter 21

**Interlopers**

"Uh, Pyotr?" Quarir said uncertainly.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do?"

"We should remain where we are and hope it is soon distracted."

"Distracted?"

"Just do not shoot the Guard. Otherwise it will attack us."

"What the hell do you call this then?" Quarir snapped.

"It is merely testing the boundaries of this territory. The Antlions have not had the chance to inspect it for so long."

"It's headbutting the rock! I'm going to fall off!"

"Quarir?"

" _What?!"_

"Under no circumstances should you fall off."

* * *

The Domarians had some instance of psionic aptitude in their civilisation, but they were not all inherently psychic like, say, the Arcadimaarians.

But Vortigaunts had grasped telepathy so extensively that, arguably, they shared the same mind.

This phenomenon has never been properly explained, at least not by anyone else's science. The so-called Vortessence has been classified as everything from a particular type of psionic discipline to a transdimensional communication network.

Vortigaunt society had been built on telepathy, and they tended to speak only as a sign of respect towards less advanced races. Vortessence transcended mere words.

Vortessence was entirely impenetrable to even the most advanced psychic, and thus even empires as technological as the Combine had had difficulty in locating and subduing Pyotr's kind. Indeed, some of the biggest galactic powers knew nothing of Xen. Vortigaunts resisted psionic probing and physical torture with limitless willpower, and thus if a lone Vort fell into the hands of a hostile force they would learn nothing, as the unfortunate individual was in constant contact with his fellows, comforted at all times, told of his unending importance to their cause.

But this didn't stop the Combine from trying.

Adam couldn't quite recall why the humans had given him the name, but he was aware of its biblical importance and thus he and his fellows had found it quite flattering, taking it, of course, as a compliment meant for their entire society.

He dwelt on this as the CP official hooked up his free arm to a second terminal, and this time, when a hundred thousand volts crackled through his body, besting even his species' natural resistance to electricity, the pain only made him flinch. The first three times, his jaws had gone into spasm, and he'd broken a bone.

After a full minute of this, the officer grew tired and ordered his men to deactivate the machine.

Adam breathed in, looked up, and had his face smashed by a solid metal baton, almost popping his core eye from its socket.

His torturers had long since given up asking questions. They'd resigned themselves to the fact that he wouldn't talk. Now, perhaps, they were just doing it as light entertainment.

They'd been asking an awful lot of different questions, Adam realised, as they enthusiastically tried to saw his leg off with a thermo-scalpel, so things must've been getting the Combine down.

 _They want to know of Freeman?_ asked a Vort who had not been given a human name as he'd never contacted anyone outside of his 'Gaunt-populated settlement.

 _Yes,_  Adam responded, slightly irritated at all the blood covering his eye,  _but they also wish to know of Pyotr and his charges._

(Vorts would not, within the privacy of their own minds, ever refer to one of their own by a name bestowed by a human. But their names for each other do not lend themselves well to being written.)

 _Do we know of the Domarians?_  asked another.  _Our kindred within Colony 351 have had very limited contact with them, but they seem genuinely benign._

They are identical to humans. It is just that they have had their destiny shaped by the Uclasion Artefact.

Yes. The artificial mind. I suppose we should be glad that it fell into the hands of a worthy species.

That is a point to debate. Because surely, if even the likes of the Combine had found it, perhaps they would not be so twisted and warlike?

The Combine would not have let their destiny be shaped by a machine. They would have destroyed it, because they would have rightly feared it.

But they would retain the Uclasion Construct, we are sure. No civilisation would pass up such a technology.

Angered at the fact that he hadn't provoked a stronger reaction, the CP removed the thermo-scalpel from Adam's kneecap, searching for a more potent device.

 _It is a pity that the Uclasions are an extinct race,_  Adam projected wistfully.

_Perhaps they would have stopped the Combine rising to such levels of power. Perhaps they would have risen to take the Combine's place. We shall never know._

Rather surprisingly, the CPs decided to release Adam from the table, unshackling his limbs and dragging his broken body back to his cramped cell.

 _Rest assured,_  Pyotr said,  _we are in close proximity to Nova Prospekt. The Domarian is heading there for reasons unknown. Even we cannot guess the plans of the Artefact. But we shall rescue both you and Eli Vance, Adam._

 _A noble sentiment,_  said some newcomers,  _but we must tell you this: Freeman has passed through our base. He has claimed the 'bugbait', and he storms Nova Prospekt with an army of righteous Antlions._

* * *

The Antlion was dimly aware that some unidentifiable life form sat atop the rocky outcropping, and thus the bulky insect was attempting to dislodge it: for fully a minute now it had charged the unmoving mound, eagerly seeking to drive the interloper from its territory or at least ascertain what the thing  _was_.

Quarir considered shooting the beast, but he recalled Pyotr's advice and stayed his hand- the bug was livid enough as it was, and considering its powerfully built frame there was every chance that a shotgun blast would merely anger it further. As for his Mercenary-made plasma rifle, his trophy from the Domarian assassin... well, enough said. Powerful as it was, it was likely to have every scanner in a ten mile radius zooming towards its energy signature.

Nuri subconsciously edged away from the Antlion Guard as it butted their stony throne for the umpteenth time, and tried to keep an eye on the events within the Combine-garrisoned settlement.

The surviving CPs had given up all pretence of resistance. They ran for their lives, heading to their only chance of outrunning the insectoid predator: the second APC, parked on the outskirts of the little shantytown.

From out of his peripheral vision, Nalore spotted something black-plated shifting into his view. With a speed he didn't know he possessed, he forcibly pushed Annie's hand down. She'd been about to fire the Sentinel plasma pistol.

"What?" she shouted defensively, aware that she may well have done something wrong but too highly strung to face up to the possibility.

"Firstly, we've all agreed not to shoot that thing," Quarir snapped hoarsely, hand still clamped around the woman's wrist. "Secondly, and most importantly, that's a Sentinel. It's Security's standard issue sidearm, and it's got more defensive mechanisms in it then the average mansion. Do  _not_  try doing  _anything_  with it!"

Annie looked at the chunky gun as if she'd only just realised it wasn't of her world. "Well," she hazarded, sounding almost apologetic, "do you want it?"

Quarir reared back as if the proffered handgun was a venomous snake. "Hell no! It'll probably explode or burn a hole in my hand or worse!"

Annie pouted. "I'm not holding onto it if it's dangerous..."

"Don't put it down either!" Quarir had backed away so far that he was in danger of toppling into the forgotten Antlion's path.

Pyotr chose to make his contribution at that point, fortuitously distracting Nalore long enough to stop him moving any further. "Quarir Nalore, surely it is safely disarmed if it has not yet shown any sign of activity? Annie did manage to pick it up."

"Look, I  _know_  this technology," Quarir stood forward again to waggle a disciplining finger at the group, much to everyone's relief. "It can work even if you take it a million miles from home. It'd be weaker, sure, but just as—"

At that moment, the much-reduced CP squadron started up their only operational APC. The team's Antlion antagonist skidded to a halt mid-charge, and started galloping towards the noisome vehicle. Its crew roared off towards the horizon, ploughing through several lesser Antlions in their desperation.

"Well, at least they've cleared a path for us," Nuri piped up, although she was cringingly aware that the Antlions had merely replaced one danger with another.

"We must await their withdrawal," Pyotr told them solemnly, "and pray that we do not ourselves disturb them."

Quarir licked his lips with a sandpaper-dry tongue. "It still leaves us stranded. I was counting on stealing that APC, but it just went and died."

The control console, nothing but a tiny glowing speck from this distance, flashed from red to golden, and then quietly switched to green, showering tiny, almost imperceptible yellow sparks. The APC at the settlement's centre inexplicably chugged back into life, and its attached thumper ponderously rose into the air with a groan.

The Antlions seemed to know what was coming. They started to flee from the construct before it was even in full flow. But when the thumper's heavy piston slammed into the earth, they squealed in shock and even the Antlion Guard flinched visibly.

On the second blow the Antlions turned tail burrowing back to their nest in a terrified tempest of sand. In a few short seconds, every one of the insects had disappeared, leaving only the repetitive rumbles of the Combine's thumper.

"That was... a pretty convenient malfunction," Nuri hedged, clearly wary.

"Uh, yeah," Quarir grinned nervously, "lucky us."

On the thumper's lone display panel, Maintonon's cyclopean icon flashed into existence for a nanosecond. Then it went the way of the Antlions, vanishing as if it had never been there.

* * *

"We have a problem."

"Extrapolate," Forty requested. You could have called his manner cold but the Benefited no longer possessed mannerisms. They were one and the same. They treated even the video communication units as an extension of themselves.

"Freeman has already breached the outlying fortifications of Nova Prospekt," said Thirty-Eight. "He has deactivated the pest dispersal units and we believe him to be directing Antlions through improvised use of their pheromone systems."

Thirty-Eight was the latest of the Combine Elites to be upgraded to the rank of Benefited: an earlier "recruit" than Forty, but his poor performance had made him the latest of the upgraded transhumans, while Forty had been amongst the first. Thirty-Eight was currently posted as a glorified logistics officer, as even with his upgrades he was not considered combat-ready. If he could have felt pity or smugness, Forty would've felt them both.

"The relevance of your statement is not apparent," Forty responded.

"Freeman is already storming the facility. He has downed two gunships. We do not have the means to stop him."

"Then we will execute Eli Vance?"

"That is not for us to decide," Thirty-Eight replied. If a listener hadn't been aware of his emotionless nature, they might have mistakenly thought him to be snappish and reproachful. "This fact is relevant as it causes an objective shift. You cannot reinforce Nova Prospekt in time. You no longer have clearance to dispatch Freeman. You have been reassigned."

The words struck a chord, a deafening chord that reverberated throughout Forty's warped being. Even his implants reeled at the failure. He'd lost his chance. Freeman, the only challenge worthy of him, would not be his to eliminate. The human would advance unimpeded by the lesser "Elites" that dared to consider themselves Combine.

"That cannot be," he said, and his own statement confused him. Of course it would be. The upper echelon had commanded it, and he would obey. And yet he was furious. But he  _couldn't_  be furious, it was a logical impossibility. He was incapable of it. He'd undergone the final processes. It was impossible…

"Your secondary objective has changed priority. Your goal is to locate the Domarian and determine the veracity of his claims. Eliminate him if it proves necessary."

With that flatly delivered instruction, Thirty-Eight severed the connection. The communicator went dark, and Forty felt that, for a moment, he could see his own reflection in the blackness of the dead screen. A reflection that stripped bare mere exoskeletons and laid his innards out for all to see.

He had no concept of metaphor: he was instructing his self-diagnostic systems to prepare a report, as he always did, as he always had to, whenever given new instructions.

Despite the lingering packets of data that could only be called doubts, both his mental and physical analyses described a member of the Benefited who was in peak condition. There was no component degradation, no lasting damage despite his brush with a payload of rockets.

He examined the horde of dead that littered the twice-reclaimed Resistance bunker. Struck down by some sort of plasma weapon. An inefficient device that was nevertheless more advanced than this pathetic civilisation's best offerings.

The Domarian's trademark killings? Perhaps the mediocre empire he claimed to represent truly wished to form an alliance?

But Freeman was  _Freeman_. Freeman! Gordon Freeman! An unstoppable juggernaut, humanity's messiah!

Quarir Nalore was merely a Domarian lackey, unworthy of the smallest of attentions. This was a task for a diplomat, not a warrior. Damn multitasking! A member of the Benefited was not needed to stop a humanoid with second-rate augmentations!

In that moment, Forty resolved to ignore the Domarian interloper. Oh, he would deal with him eventually. Even in his current state Forty acknowledged the importance of a potential interspecies alliance. But he would go to Nova Prospekt regardless of what he'd been commanded to do.

If he met the Domarian en route, so much the better- he could interrogate and kill him within a few short minutes, leaving him time enough to reach Freeman. And if Thirty-Eight or one of his lessers had orders to stop him... then he'd kill them, too.

Forty, after all, had been built to be the best that humanity could offer. And humanity had offered history a constant stream of efficient, ambitious murderers.


	22. Chapter 22

**Universal Union**

Nuri drove the APC while Quarir rode shotgun, literally. But since he still didn't fully trust Earth's technology, in particular their obsession with projectile weapons and the associated ammunition limits, he kept the Domarian plasma rifle close by.

The turret sat empty, because if they encountered another APC they didn't want to arouse suspicions by manning it with an un-uniformed gunner. Besides, Pyotr was uncomfortable with Combine technology and, put bluntly, no one wanted to let Annie anywhere near a pulse cannon.

"So what happened back there?" Nuri asked above the grumble of the engine which was, to Quarir's alarm, surprisingly quiet. He couldn't just pretend not to hear her.

He could, however, pretend to be slow on the uptake, which didn't take much effort on his part. "What happened back where?"

She sighed. "Quarir, ever since we met strange things have happened to Combine machines. I've accepted that you're not, strictly speaking, actually human… but I want to know what's going on. It's weird even by your standards."

He squirmed in the uncomfortable plastic chair. "I don't know what you mean."

"Golden sparks ring a bell? Weird golden sparks. The computer cabinet back when that Elite tried to interrogate us? It opened up and unlocked your shackles and all the doors. And the thumper just now? Cut out just when we needed it to and then came back on before the Antlions could eat us alive."

"Pretty lucky, yeah?" he grinned nervously.

"Let me put it like this: tell me what's going on or I'll shoot you. With the plasma gun so there's no threat of you surviving."

"Yeah, but… you don't know how to operate it…"

"Making it all the more dangerous, surely? Just tell me what's going on, Quarir. Please."

"I don't know!" Quarir flung himself back in the overly solid seat. It hurt. "Okay? I told you… Zyke knew everything that I didn't know." He winced at the memory of the man's demise. Guilt was not something he wanted to deal with right now. "There're huge great gaps in my mission objectives. I know that Maintonon has some kind of transmission network, so yeah, that cybernetic bastard is manipulating machines whenever he gets the chance but I haven't heard from him since."

"But if he can somehow control all those devices how come he can't communicate with you?"

"I don't know, dammit! I'm floundering here. I've got no idea what to do. We might as well take Pyotr's advice and keep on for that Prospekt place… it's as good a plan as any. It'll keep us away from all the trouble we've stirred up at City 17."

With a sudden scraping sound, the oversized hatch that separated the drivers from their passengers flopped open, revealing Pyotr's countenance.

"Incorrect," the Vort intoned, "we suggested that you head  _towards_  Nova Prospekt. Contrary to what you believe, the prison will be heavily guarded. Once we locate an outlying base, we can use the Combine's machines against them. We can ascertain what they plan for us, and we can regroup accordingly."

"I thought you wanted to help me rescue Mr. Vance?" Nuri said reproachfully.

"We all do. But we would be better served tapping into the Combine transmission network. Freeman and has righteous hordes will free Eli Vance."

"This Freeman guy better be as good as you think, because if you're not, you're all beffed beyond belief," Quarir shook his head, resorting to Domarian swear words out of homesickness. "And what were you doing anyway, Pyotr? Listening at the door?"

"Yes," the 'Gaunt told him unashamedly. "I am already aware of your nature and that of your commander, Quarir Nalore."

"What are you lot talking about?" Annie called, suddenly appearing next to Pyotr.

"Nothing," Quarir snapped, slamming the door shut in their faces.

"He's right, anyway," Nuri told him, trying very hard to drive safely while simultaneously consoling a depressed alien. "We can easily head to a base and tap into a comm panel."

"How? Hmm? There'll be guards. Probably a military presence too. How are we meant to get past them without dying, huh?"

Nuri was taken aback by the sudden, seemingly arbitrary ferocity of Nalore's response. "Well," she quavered, and her driving suffered for it, "we've got all this weird technology we've salvaged and you're pretty tough-"

"Not tough enough. I'm not a soldier, Nuri, and I think I've exhausted my nanotech with all those bullet wounds and breaks and poisonings... my leg still hasn't healed. A plasma rifle and a psionic amplifier that none of us can use won't do us any damn favours!"

"You're not a soldier? But I thought..."

"I'm not some magic secret operative! Okay? I'm a criminal, and not even a very good one! Where I come from you either force unrepentant perps to do some hopeless suicide mission, or you do the killing yourself and atomise them. I had no choice! The damn computer aids or obstructs me at random and expects me to get some crazy scheme of his done!"

"But…" Nuri trailed off. She'd known all along, if she admitted it to herself. She'd known that Quarir wouldn't have some grand plan. He really was just a lone maniac dumped on a planet and given some ineffable, unachievable goal. A truth she'd already realised but refused to face.

The door clanged open again. "You are mistaken, Quarir Nalore," Pyotr scolded him. "Your past conduct is entirely irrelevant. You have survived against all odds in the present, which is the only plane that matters now. One of our number perished during your journey. Dmitri gave his life. Zichekoam lost his. Do not mourn them or apportion blame. Give them posthumous purpose."

Quarir opened his mouth.

"We have prevailed against all comers," Pyotr continued, giving him no chance to interrupt. "We survived Nihilanth and his masters. We survived the portal storms that stranded us on this world. We survived the ancient conflicts with the Outsiders, and we shall survive the Combine, Quarir Nalore. With or without you. Both in life and time will be lessened with co-operation."

Pyotr shut the door again, leaving Nuri and Nalore staring ahead silently.

" _I find Vortigaunt philosophy intriguing,"_  said Maintonon. " _You could learn much from them, Nalore."_

* * *

" _I am aware that there are several hundred pressing issues you wish to run by me,"_  Maintonon continued calmly, " _but they can wait."_

"What the hell?" said Nalore.

" _Restrict yourself to mental projection Nalore. Otherwise your terrestrial friend will undoubtedly think you've lost your tentative grip on sanity."_

 _No thanks to you,_  Quarir projected scathingly. Sure enough, Nuri was looking at him concernedly, but as he spoke no further she assumed he was just muttering to himself.

" _Your odd little party is en route to Fortress Delta, a midsized Combine outpost that was once a native military base. It is currently a resupply station and a garrison for the Civil Protection services."_

Quarir ignored the "advice" the cybernetic entity was spouting.  _What's taken you so long? I've been out on a limb here._

" _I have already explained your situation. Transmissions of this length expend vast amounts of power."_

_With the whole damn Source plugged into your core I don't see what the problem is!_

" _Every transmission increases the chance of Combine interception. They are a very advanced foe, Nalore. Every time I utilised my… talents to influence their technology there was an increasing probability that any form of follow-up would allow them to detect the signals. Hence the communicative silence."_

_Yeah? Well I've had no idea what to do! I've just blundered around hoping like hell that you'd get off your fifty-thousand-ton ass and talk to me!_

" _You have acted exactly as I predicted you would. You are meeting your objectives perfectly. If you ever acted outside of them, I would have corrected your course regardless of the risk."_

_Zyke died, you bastard! That's more than just a risk!_

" _Zichekoam is not dead."_

_You what? I… I saw him..._

" _Take a Dark Energy munition to the chest and survive,"_  Maintonon finished for him. " _His molecular structure, as a Rot, is vastly denser to anything on this world. And several million other worlds for that matter. He suffered fourth degree burns and a limited degree of molecular disruption but even those horrific wounds will heal in time. He is not dead."_

_You didn't say anything!_

" _As important a fact as it was it was not essential to your mission. I had to reserve my transmission quotient for more essential actions."_

The Combine considered windows to be too fragile for a military vehicle, but Quarir's passenger door still bore a video relay that was conveniently angled out to his right. He watched the dull scrubland scroll past in deep thought, all manner of emotion fighting for dominance. Eventually confusion tempered with relief and allied with anger, and they directed their joint attack at Maintonon.

_Why the hell are you doing this, you artificial arrogant asshole?_

" _To save us all from the Combine. You underestimate the threat they pose, Nalore. If I so much as positioned a teleport flare the Combine command would direct all manner of reinforcements here… and then not even all the Behemoth could prevail against them."_

_We've got Ucelsia. That's our trump card._

" _And they have a billion planets in a thousand different dimensions and a million different absorbed species. They are an interdimensional empire, one of the most powerful groups in the known universes. You are correct in thinking that Ucelsia would survive even prolonged conflict against them but as you also told your interrogator during your defection ruse, the rest of the Domarian nation would fall before them."_

_Well, we've got the Grandcruisers…_

" _Which, powerful as they are, would not survive a sustained assault,"_  Maintonon was clearly tiring of labouring the point. " _The Combine are vast, well-organised and massively manoeuvrable. They would merely phaseshift a fully-formed Citadel, filled with a colossal invasion force, through the crust of whatever world they chose to invade. Ucelsia would be our only bastion."_

_I can't see how I can help then!_

" _That is the plan, Nalore. Even the Combine will fail to realise your significance. Did you know that 'Giganthorin' was one of Ucelsia's assigned names before your species found us both?"_

_No, I didn't. Should I care?_

" _It means 'Godeater', Nalore. Do you know why the Uclasion's enemies called it such?"_

Quarir snorted, and beside him Nuri made a fresh attempt to determine his mental state.  _Pretty damn obvious,_  he thought,  _it's a planet-sized spaceship with more firepower than a sun! Why do you think?_

" _No, Nalore. They called it 'Godeater' because all who faced it allowed it to consume them, invariably allying with the Uclasions rather than facing its wrath._

_"But originally the name was not given to Ucelsia. It was given to_ _**me** _ _, Nalore. Like your Vortigaunt friends I have prevailed against all comers, and that will not change. I will survive the Arcadimaarians and the Combine, Nalore, because if I do not you will all die with me."_

* * *

Fortress Delta didn't look like much. A squat, concrete building topped with the trappings of its current masters, those strange, sail-roofed observation posts and jagged battlements the Combine seemed to favour.

There was a sizeable sprawl of moody urbanity on the horizon, a far larger, cliff bound complex that Pyotr said was the infamous facility of Nova Prospekt.

Sirens wailed in the distance and searchlights caressed the former prison's vast courtyards, and Quarir wondered if Pyotr had a point: judging by the Combine's response this Freeman guy seemed to be a one man army.

He recalled Maintonon's words, just before his life imploded on him and he found himself on a different world in a different dimension:

" _I am not the only force intervening to alter this planet's destiny. There will be others there, operatives influenced by powers that are not dissimilar to myself. You are not to disrupt their missions."_

Quarir considered that, and thought of physicists in orange power armour.

They left the APC in a deserted square of unmarked tarmac. It probably acted both as a car park and helipad.

"It's… very quiet," said Nuri. Despite the activity that kept the distant mass of Nova Prospekt buzzing with life, Fortress Delta seemed to be deserted.

"They have been sent to reinforce Nova Prospekt," Pyotr told her, gratefully stepping out from the cramped confines of the personnel carrier. "The Combine will not make the mistake of underestimating the Freeman again."

Fortress Delta had been adapted from a row of defensive bunkers that backed onto a small observation facility. Dull concrete blocks lashed together with the Combine's strangely luminous alloys and cabling. Indeed, while the access ramp was undoubtedly human, the black, magseal-bearing hatchway was cleary of Combine origin...

It opened, and two transhuman soldiers stepped out.

Realising they couldn't possibly pass themselves off as CPs, the four refugees shot the unfortunate Combine minions to pieces.

"So much for surprise," Quarir sniffed, reloading the shotgun (he had started getting the hang of it). "I hope you know what you're doing, Pyotr."

 _And I hope Maintonon does too,_  he added privately.  _We're risking life and limb here, and I've only got three which work properly._

"These have a different uniform," Annie mused, stepping over the perforated bodies with surprising nonchalance.

"They are of Nova Prospekt's defence contingent," Pyotr explained. "They possess marginally superior combat skills to their lesser Protectorate brethren."

Annie followed along quietly.

Promisingly, there was an armoury directly to the left of the entrance, no doubt to quickly supply scrambling troops. Less promisingly, its weapon racks and medical units were empty and depleted. The four made do with grabbing what little ammunition remained and then went on their way.

The corridor turned sharply, and they found themselves running up to a shimmering, electric-blue defensive field.

"Ah," said Quarir, "I'd forgotten about them."

Nuri gently nudged the Vortigaunt. "Do you know how to bypass it Pyotr?"

"Yes. We must short-circuit the Combine's automations. Direct your fire towards the primary coupling beyond this most-obstructive field."

Nalore blinked. "Uh," he said at length, "what, exactly, do you mean...?"

Clicking something unpronounceable, Pytor spread his hands wide. Green arcs of lightning discharged, earthing themselves on the metal plates beneath his feet, and after a few energy-manipulating hand gestures the 'Gaunt sent a bolt of bioelectricity into a fat, ribbed cable just visible beyond the field's barrier.

It sparked, twitching on the floor like a dying snake, and Quarir's penny finally dropped. "Oh, you meant shoot the wire. Right."

"Indeed, Quarir Nalore. You would do well to heed our words."

"I did, I just didn't understand them. 'Shoot the wire' would've been much easier to say, and you wouldn't have had to exert yourself."

"There was no exertion on our part," Pyotr told him stiffly. "We have limitless access to such energies. The ties of Vortessence bind us all." As if to demonstrate his apparently limitless physique, Pyotr bounded off with the lurching gait his kind seemed capable of maintaining for eternity.

"Ah," the Vort exclaimed, suddenly stopping at another looming Combine hatchway: and the others, who had been straining themselves to follow, ground to a halt. "This," Pyotr announced, "would appear to be a security door. The main control terminal for this building will be within."

"That's great," Nuri nodded, "but how, exactly, are we going to get past the door?" She looked at Quarir questioningly, and, heeding her unvoiced suggestion, he began rolling up his sleeves.

"No, Quarir Nalore," Pyotr stopped him, "this barrier is beyond your means."

"Then what do we do?" he snapped, self-consciously readjusting the citizenry garb he'd worn since his escapade began. "Shout at it until it gives in and opens?"

"Your humour knows no bounds," Pyotr said solemnly, "if only that were the case. We are quite capable of opening this device with careful application of our immeasurable energy reserves, but it will take many minutes to match the magnetic sequence."

Annie piped up. "We could try shooting it open," she suggested, holding the neglected Sentinel up for all to see.

Quarir backed off again. "Keep that thing down! God damn!" he shuddered at the oversized pistol, which even now brought back strangely nostalgic memories of angry Security guards. "But hang on," he clicked his fingers, "you might be onto something…"

He dropped the shotgun to the floor and struggled to untangle himself from the Merc plasma rifle.

"I thought you didn't know how to use that?" Nuri swallowed, the two women now backing off themselves.

"No, I said you didn't. I wouldn't trust that Sentinel further than I can throw it, but this… well, I've used one a hundred times."

Annie stopped hunching over. "Really?"

"Well, no," Quarir admitted, "but I've used a Merc food processor, so the principle is the same. Where's the power setting? I can't see what it's set to."

Apparently it was set far too high, because, in a hellish flash of ruby light, the circular magseal lock and much of its attached door splattered into dripping black gunk.

"Hmm, that's interesting. Usually the round button means 'cancel' or 'default'," Quarir examined it critically- the smoking rifle was powering down with a sated purr. " Must be different for guns."

"You don't say," Nuri snarled, snatching the weapon off him. "I'll keep this, because if you feel like a snack and press the triangular button you'll probably fry us all."

"Nah," he corrected her, "triangular button means medium-rare. Although," he mused, "with a gun it probably does mean self-destruct or something—"

"Promise us you will train yourself in the necessary skills to operate such a tool," Pyotr reprimanded him. "Such as distinguishing between a catering device and a weapon of mass destruction."

The melted doorway was already hardening into a sticky, tar-like material. Pyor stepped through the gap.

There was a worryingly familiar ground-based turret beyond the hatch but the rifle's plasma bolt had sailed straight through it, ignoring its armoured housing and pulverising the fragile components within.

"That," Nuri breathed, "is a powerful gun."

"Not really," Quarir said, although secretly even the Domarian had always harboured a strong feeling of national pride when it came to implements that superheated matter. "I've depleted the charge core, and now it'll take a while to get back up to full."

"How can you check it?" Annie asked, trying to keep clear of the acrid, foul-smelling smoke spiralling from the ruined gun turret.

"On a food processor you could review your last order with the rectangle button, so..."

"Do not encourage Quarir Nalore," Pyotr told Annie, "it would be a most inadvisable action."

To either side of the door and its floor-mounted defence cannon, yet more Combine apparatus lined the walls. Most of the screens were blank or a mess of static but one lone terminal displayed a green-tinged diagnostic screen.

"This is what we have been seeking," Pyotr called them towards it, a hint of excitement creeping into the morose Vort's voice, "Nuri Dekker, come assist us. You have had previous experience of such devices."

She obligingly drew alongside Pyotr and brought up a spidery display window with a few careful key presses. "Ah," she said disappointedly, "we can't access the communication protocols from here. We'd have to use the module in the next room."

She checked the displayed blueprint and pointed out a thick door just behind the still-cooling turret. It was well camouflaged against the walls, sharing their angular appearance, although the glowing red magseal lock was a slight give away.

"Well?" Quarir nudged his way to the front and squinted at the immensely detailed schematic. "Can you open it?"

Nuri's fingers flowed over the controls, her face a mask of concentration. Eventually the wire frame door changed to green on the monitor, and she triumphantly hit the outsized "confirm" button. The door sighed open, vanishing into the ceiling.

Just as they all turned to face it, it slammed shut again.

Frowning, Nuri repeated the process: every time she did so, the door would reseal itself whenever her finger left the key.

"There's some kind of security measure," she mused. "Whenever I leave the terminal, it seals again."

"Easily done," Quarir beamed, "I'll go inside the comm room while you keep the door open."

"It'd make more sense if I went," Nuri turned to him, "I'm the only one who can use these things…"

"Look, there's bound to be another turret or something beyond there, and I'm the only one of you who can take more than one bullet before copping out and dying. Yeah?"

"He's right," said Annie.

"You told me your nanotech was failing," Nuri began.

"It maybe is," he admitted, "but even then I'm full of bullet-proof metal lumps and none of you are. Okay?"

"Okay," Nuri conceded.

"So I'll go in, check it out, and then you can work your magic. All right?"

"All right."

Nodding, glad to have won an argument through logic for a change, Quarir went up to the comm room door, which Nuri grudgingly opened for him. He stepped inside.

He didn't react when, predictably, the door closed itself behind him. Quarir was fairly sure Nuri would let him back out if he started screaming for help, if only because she found his cries irritating.

The comm room wasn't the mess of equipment he'd expected, just a small control terminal in the right corner, albeit with a very large monitor that dominated most of the wall. An odd metal object was mounted on a rail to his left: it was about man sized, and put Quarir in mind of a futuristic sarcophagus. Opposite there was a small hatch, some sort of repair cabinet, presumably. But it wasn't his job to be interested in all this junk.

"All right," he bellowed through the door, "it's all clear."

It didn't open.

"Nuri?"

No reply.

Could he have been stupid enough to try this plan with a sound-proof door? It was quite possible, but even then Nuri would surely realise something was wrong and open the door again.

Something was up.

The comm terminal flashed into life.

"Ah, Quarir Nalore, I believe," Dr Breen smiled. "I don't believe we've met. Let me be the first sane human to welcome you to our little utopia."

* * *

"Wallace Breen," Quarir said flatly. This was the planet's Combine-backed head.

"At least it appears your AI slave-driver has given you some information to work with," Breen smiled again. "Such a pity that the Mainframe neglected to explain those details which actually matter."

"Yeah, but I'm not really going to tell you my reasons for being here now, am I? Not just because you claim they're flawed." Quarir stalled for time, as was his talent, because he needed to know what the man actually knew. There was a horrible possibility that Breen possessed greater knowledge of his objectives than he did…

"Well, Mr Nalore, it's not my place to do so," Breen shrugged. "I'm Earth's representative, certainly, but I cannot speak for the Union. Likewise I imagine you cannot represent the Domarian Legion and all their associated trading neighbours."

"Actually, I beg to differ: screw you."

"You're picking up the language quite well, it seems. My point is that my superiors have ensured me that your loyalties are quite misplaced. I have not been told the specifics, but it is quite clear to me that you are being led astray."

Quarir scowled, and absently tried the door's control switch, to no avail.

"It's sealed, Mr Nalore, as you should have noticed. I need to have a frank chat with you."

"I think 'screw you' pretty much covers everything."

"Indeed, in your current frame of mind you believe the Resistance can do no wrong and that the… 'Combine', as you all put it, can do no right. I intend to change that."

"Oh yeah?"

" _Yes_ , Mr Nalore. I am aware of your species' history, and it makes for most engrossing reading."

"I'm sure it does," Quarir said cautiously.

"Particularly the part that this… 'Maintonon' played."

"Your Combine Elite friend already tried that one," Quarir sneered. "You can't draw any parallels between what we do and what you do. Well, you could, but you'd have to be a twisted little turncoat like yourself."

"Really? You turned to a machine in your time of need, relying on its knowledge of a vast alien relic to reverse your fortunes. You then went on to annihilate your enemies, and then through hostile means, whether economic or military, forged alliances with the remnant of your galaxy." Breen looked away, as if checking notes. "Currently your primary colony onboard the relic in question, this 'Ucelsia', has several billion inhabitants. All of which are rendered sterile and are protected by a somewhat hard-line law enforcement service known simply as 'Security'." Breen's eyes snapped back up. "Ring any bells, Mr Nalore?"

"Same flaw in your argument, Breen. Maintonon came to us and we let him do all that. We needed it."

"As does humanity, Quarir. I'm sure this Mainframe of yours kept you in the loop. Our history is quite different to yours. Wars aplenty, we have that in common, but always amongst ourselves. Until the Union we had no interstellar connections… we were in technological stagnation since we split the atom and, of course, we put those towards the war effort, and we soon racked up some impressive casualties. Earth was a mess, Nalore."

"Maybe. Doesn't excuse any of this."

"It's for their own good, you must realise that. Humanity cannot govern itself with its primitive means. Through crass incompetence we had bastardised Darwin's theory of evolution— maintaining practises that have no place in modern society and doing our best to cater to the needs of a minority that is distinctly destructive. We were destroying ourselves."

Quarir looked away.

"Yes, I'm sure it's familiar now." Breen actually looked pitying. "Executions for those that fight against rehabilitation, training programmes for those with no skills, sterilisation to prevent overcrowding. The Combine? Oh no, that's the Domarian Legion."

Quarir glowered. " _We_  implemented all that! If it sucks, it's because we were free to make it suck! And here, for every collaborator you've got three people who hate you and two who are prepared to fight against what you're bringing here."

"Just because a minority refuses to acknowledge the importance of the Union's vision does not mean we should deny the species immortality."

"So you know what's best for them, eh?"

"Of course. You should understand that. After all, the Legion let themselves be ruled by an artificial dictator."

"The keyword there is 'let'! And Maintonon's about a billion times smarter than a human, there's a difference!"

"And yet your entire command structure lies about the machine's influence, do they not? Acting as if it's a mere assistant and not their tyrant. Whereas I'm aided by an advisory network with access to limitless knowledge. My superiors are very clever beings, Mr Nalore, and I am open about the part they play."

"What you're doing is monstrous."

"Then you are a monster, Quarir. Your species was so similar to ours that the differences between a human or Domarian were mere quibbles but now, after generations of genetic manipulation and cybernetic augmentation, the Domarian lifespan approaches three hundred." Breen shook his head in amazed admiration. "That is our aim Quarir. To bring humanity past the confines of their backward shells. Let them form a chrysalis from their cultural ignorance and genetic stagnation and emerge as the pinnacle of evolution. Perfect examples of what we  _should_  be."

"You're mad. You believe it, don't you? The Combine are using you. They'll suck the world dry of all its resources and you'll just become another smear on their genetic record. But who knows, maybe the odd human-based  _freak_  will appear alongside their Synth."

"You think little of them, Quarir."

"Damn right I do. What's in it for them? What, they're galactic philanthropists?"

Breen sighed, as if he was a long-abused teacher trying to educate an ungrateful child. "What's in it for Maintonon, Mr Nalore? The Union and your Mainframe see things in the long term. In less than a decade the Union's programme will be complete, and we will be what we've always meant to be. We will be shielded from more hostile powers, such as your Arcadimaarian neighbours, and the Universal Union will be just that bit more universal."

"You're mad," Quarir repeated, "you'll never get me round to your way of thinking."

"Oh, I never intended to."

"Then why are you flapping your lips, you senile bastard?"

Breen smiled again. "I was simply distracting you while my Elites got into position."

The 'cabinet'— an access door in reality— burst open, and before Nalore knew what was happening three of the white-clad operatives were upon him. Two grabbed his arms and the other stood buy with their pulse rifle unerringly trained on his forehead.

"It's a pity you lied to Forty about your urge to join us. My superiors think your species has great potential," Breen smiled sadly, "but since we won't gain access to the Extinct's long-lost technologies any time soon, well, we'll settle for you."

Quarir struggled, but whatever augmentations the Combine had forced upon their transhuman forces were far in advance of the failing devices nestled between his innards. He might as well have tried wrestling a pair of mountains.

The sarcophagus swung open, and a portion of wall at the end of its rail slid aside.

"What the hell are you going to do?!" Nalore screamed, hoping Nuri could hear him and come to his aid.

"I'm going to do very little, Mr Nalore," Breen said menacingly. "I shall allow my labour saving devices, namely Fifty-five and Sixty-one, to do all the work, just as the Domarians allow their mechs to do all theirs. This cell will transport you to Nova Prospekt's central hub in an appreciably rapid time."

Quarir thrashed around but the two Elites slammed him into the metallic coffin, clicking all manner of restraint into place. "It will be for all our betterments, Nalore," Breen assured him. "If the Union considers your species, with their pre-installed augmentations and genetic readiness, a viable addition to their happy family it may well save you all from the Arcadimaarians. We might meet again. Who knows, you may yet serve the Domarians in the same way I have served humanity and we will all exist as we were meant to exist. In perfect unity."

Their work done, the Elites ignored the discarded shotgun but treated the plasma rifle with care. No doubt it, too, would join Quarir under the inspection unit's knife.

Quarir's head was the only part of his body he could move. He twisted it violently, as if his neck alone could break his bonds. "God damn you Breen! You don't know what you're doing!"

"No, Mr Nalore," Breen shook his head as the sarcophagus engaged, slowly starting its trip down its rail, "I know  _exactly_  what I'm doing, it's just a pity that I'm the only one. Your contract is likely to be non-negotiable, as it were, but I've cut-out the middleman." Breen laughed, and he didn't sound half as sinister as a misdirected madman should. "Now I must prepare to deal with a far more dangerous individual. A rogue physicist, who is remarkably similar to you but better at what he does and, regrettably, what he does is aimlessly spread chaos. Talent tempered with ignorance and wilful destruction."

"Good for him," Quarir snarled, as his cramped cell finally approached the opening. It was picking up speed. Quarir had no idea what awaited him.

Breen's image watched him go. "Compared to Freeman, you are not even a  _pin_  in the Union's inner workings. Goodbye, Mr Nalore."


	23. Chapter 23

**Our Malefactors**

"Quarir?"

She rapped her knuckles on the door.

"Quarir? What's going on?"

Nuri ran over to the control panel and tried to re-enact the command sequence that had opened the comm room. Perhaps she'd merely made a mistake with the protocols. Perhaps she was panicking for no reason. But no matter how much she steadied herself, forcing her racing mind into calmness, she couldn't open the door. It had sealed itself and was refusing her commands- that was the only explanation. It had locked down.

"Quarir!" she bellowed through the hatch, "Are you all right?" She leant over and pulled Pyotr towards the doorway. For all his alien bulk, Nuri managed to drag him as if he was weightless. "You said you could open one of these given time," she hissed urgently, "do it!"

Not deigning to comment on his manhandling, Pyotr spread his arms and prepared to focus his energies on the mocking red indicator light of the magseal.

The hatch slammed open, framing three Combine Elites against the light of the comm room- pulse rifles raised like a firing squad, they took aim.

Without appearing to move, Annie raised the Sentinel pistol and fired thrice.

Nuri and Pyotr stiffened as three searing beams of energy flashed past them. When she opened her eyes, Nuri expected to find herself close to death or on another plane of existence... but instead she found herself looking at three smoking corpses.

Annie manipulated some tiny control on the colossal pistol and its exhaust fumes lessened considerably. She smiled.

"What the beffing  _hell?_ " said Nuri, later telling herself that some of Quarir's mannerisms must've rubbed off on her, and that thus she'd need to bathe.

When Annie spoke, her voice had lost the wheedling, irritating twinge that had been so distinctive. "Don't worry about Quarir. This is all to plan. We can follow his route on foot."

"What's to plan? What route?" Nuri gaped. "What's going on Annie?"

"My name is not Annie. I'm Corporal Yuza Sothullit of the Domarian Enforcers."

Putting all other questions out of her mind, Nuri faced the operative. "What's happened to Quarir?"

"Breen has taken the bait. He is to be processed at Nova Prospekt."

"Bait?  _Processed?!_

"Relax Nuri, they won't turn him into a Stalker just yet. In fact, considering their research queue they'll keep him in storage for hours to come. And then we'll rescue him, but not before he can use his position from inside the facility to cause a fair bit of disruption."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Nuri snarled.

Yuza shrugged, holstering her Sentinel on a magnetic belt clip. "Because if you'd known about my true nature I highly doubt Quarir would have gone anywhere with me. He appears to dislike Enforcers intensely. Practically phobic."

"I don't blame him! You're a bunch of lying, manipulating—"

"Life savers?" Yuza smiled disarmingly. "And I didn't lie very much. I really was trapped in that bunker, although in truth  _I_  forced the door shut to by myself time to fix the teleport module." Yuza shook her head. "I was the one who had beamed in via the transit booth. Regrettably the bounty hunter with the rifle was a remnant of my previous assignment, he followed me down and started wreaking havoc." She remembered something. "Hmm, they took the rifle with them? There must be some sort of cargo distributor nearby. Well, that's something else to retrieve. I should have taken it myself but of course that would've broken my cover…"

By now even Pyotr was confused. "Please clarify: how did your organisation and the Uclasion Artefact know of our intentions and those of the Combine? We have been guided here by the tacticians of Grassy Knoll. Archibald has relayed schematics to us, and with the help of the Resistance's analysts we devised the plan to undermine the Combine..." he stopped abruptly.

Yuza sighed. "Yes, I see you've worked it out. There's a traitor in your midst, feeding the Vort network data they can't themselves verify. They set up Quarir's capture, leading you to the closest arm of the cell network."

"That is not why I have paused," Pyotr interrupted bitterly. "I have confirmation of all our suspicions. Archibald has just been killed."

* * *

Archibald would often sit within Grassy Knoll's comm tower for hours at a time, sifting through the transmitted reports with infinite patience, checking his survey maps to guide the Resistance home.

Currently Archibald's body was slumped across his tiny desk, his blood soaking the papery strata of a hundred all-night research sessions. But many of the documents were fakes anyway; high quality maps, certainly, but revealing only what the master forger who created them wanted the Vort to see.

Reginald's left arm creaked as it re-aligned, and he absently wiped the yellowish gunk off its three-pronged hand. His prosthetic looked simple, so the Resistance had always assumed it was an Earth-made replacement of little function, rather than one of the Combine's minimalist masterpieces of micro-technology.

It had been so very easy. The guileless Vortigaunts had bandied the information back and forth, never questioning its veracity.

A convenient communication command centre in a small military facility? Fools. No doubt they'd continue to refer to the schematic until Judgement Day or whatever they believed in, rather than admitting the obvious: it was a cell nexus, for quickly transporting fresh prisoners to Nova Prospekt, and they'd led the Domarian straight to it.

The gullible aliens had always believed their precious "Vortessence" was an impenetrable, uncrackable means of communicating, and it was. So the ever-resourceful Union had arranged for false data to be fed into it, forcing the poison of misinformation down their throats.

Reginald checked over his shoulder, as if expecting to be discovered but no, Kim's corpse was quite still, still bearing the horrified expression when she saw Reginald looming over Archibald's broken body. Even now her face was still twisted in shock and terror and having her neck snapped had made little difference.

Well, the arduous, month-long programme was finally over. He could stop prancing around, indulging in despicable acts of skulduggery, and get back to doing what he did best: brutally murdering people in the name of the Universal Union. He'd already sent his reports via radio and they had no doubt been archived in the Citadel's endless catacombs. So, job done, he retrieved the keys that had been entrusted with Kim.

He took the ladder to the ground, and twirled the keys on his fingers, whistling cheerfully as he headed towards the Knoll's famous garages.

A hand grabbed him by the neck and he found himself staring into luminous eyes. A tall man, white haired, in some garish mix of cloth and armour, stared back.

"Are those for a vehicle?" the apparition snarled.

Reginald nodded. It was all he could do.

" _That_  vehicle?" the man indicated an improvised shelter, the shack that currently held the Aegis leader's buggy.

Reginald nodded again.

"Excellent! I did not relish having to walk all the way here, and I'll tell you… regenerating an entire limb really takes it out of you."

"Gurk," said Reginald.

"Fortunately, they seem to have mistook my little psiwarp manoeuvre for an act of self-destruction, which suits me just fine," the Zealot smiled indulgently. "You see, I… now, what are you doing?"

Reginald was thrashing his mechanical arm around in a spirited attempt to dismember his captor. It bounced off the Zealot's breastplate with a pitiful clunking sound.

The Arcadimaarian assassin rolled his eyes. "Oh, good grief,  _that_  passes for technology?" He ripped the limb from the socket and dropped Reginald on the hard earth. "And to think you're represented on… what? Fourteen billion planets, or something suitably ridiculous? Pathetic."

Reginald groaned as blood dripped from his stump.

"Well, at least killing the Domarian may yet prove to be some exercise. Goodbye, little demihuman. I'll make good use of your backwards chariot."

The Zealot gracefully skewered the Combine spy with his own arm.

* * *

"I agree we need to go after Quarir," Nuri persisted, "but I really have to know what's going on."

"What would you want to know, Nuri?" Yuza looked her square in the eye. "Anything I tell you would jeopardise my mission. And your life, I suspect. At least if the Combine were to capture you now you'd know very little."

"That's true, but..." Nuri saw what Yuza was trying to do and shook her head. "What, open the door by hand? Quarir tried that already."

Yuza had grabbed the edge of the access door that Quarir had mistaken for a cupboard. With no sign of exertion, she peeled the tough plating from the wall and tossed it in the corner. "And Quarir was a bion with overpriced civilian augmentations.  _I'm_  a military-grade operative."

"Most impressive," said Pyotr.

"My god," said Nuri. "But you were stuck in that bunker for hours!"

"Yes, but not because of the door. I didn't want to risk being shot." Spying Quarir's dropped backpack, the Enforcer shouldered it. "Weight is no problem to  _me_ ," she explained modestly. "I suppose this is full of ammunition?"

"And a little food, yes," Nuri nodded, scavenging ammunition clips from the weapons of the fried Elites. She'd pocketed the dropped Arcadimaarian gauntlet and adopted Quarir's fallen shotgun as a keepsake.

"Food? Hah, I can live off four nutricubes a week. We'll save it for you." Sentinel at the ready, Yuza stepped out.

A short stairway led to a titanic balcony that stretched out infinitely- it ran alongside a huge, gloomy chasm that was a mass of cables and thin rails. None of the ominous cells attached beneath them were moving or occupied- but one thing was clear from the corral of sarcophagi just beyond the prison nexus's opening- the Combine were used to significantly more traffic. Nuri shuddered at the idea of all the men and women who had been shipped from here like boxed cattle.

"Nova Prospekt is approximately a mile from here," Yuza announced boldly, and Nuri found herself missing the brash Enforcer's timid, useless persona. "We should be able to bypass its strongest security measures since we're a good distance underground."

"What about its other security measures?" Nuri asked, not liking the sound of the woman's announcement.

"We probably won't see anything other than scanners," Yuza reassured her. "There might be the odd Manhack, but they'd break their saw blades on me."

"We don't all have chunks of metal in us, you know," Nuri said disapprovingly. But, not for the first time, she felt she could cope with the intrusive nature of Domarian upgrades if it meant she could be similarly casual around implements of death.

Yuza had taken off at a leisurely pace which meant Nuri, as she'd irritably predicted, found herself struggling to keep up. She was only grateful that the bion had shouldered their collective loads.

Pyotr, seemingly unfazed by the Annie/Yuza revelation but still moping over the loss of Archibald, didn't let his feelings get in the way. The Vortigaunt, always reliable, matched them step for step.

* * *

"Your drop has not been authorised," said the guard.

"The Dropship transported me. That is authorisation enough."

The prison's guards were mostly just better-trained CPs, and like their urban equivalents they weren't entirely without emotion. But the sergeant didn't seem the least bit intimidated.

"The Dropships," the guard told Forty, "were instructed to transport squads C-1 through to D-7 here. You are not a registered member of either."

"I am an Elite. My presence here is necessary! Freeman has holed himself up within the teleportation facility and he intends to take Vance with him!"

"We are fully aware of the situation."

"Then you will not question my authority! Orders or no, my presence is required to stop Freeman's escape! I cannot be obstructed by lesser minds!"

"If you're so sure of what command thinks you should do," the sergeant sneered beneath his helmet, "why did you sneak round here instead of just disembarking at the drop pad? Guilty conscience?"

Forty's lone eye contracted. "Enough of this."

In one fluid motion the Benefited's armoured fist smashed the guard backwards, taking the door with him. Forty walked over the fragments of man and metal and felt a giddy rush of exhilaration.

In a twisted alliance, his human remnant was gleefully cavorting with his implants, the inhuman drive to succeed harmonising with the thrill of pursuit. Forty knew his objective was tantalisingly close.

Eagerly, he strode towards the only challenge that was worthy of him. Freeman.

* * *

A defensive field marked the end of the tunnel. With some careful plasma blasts sent into the plating of a nearby wall Yuza managed to sever some essential power conduits and the barrier quickly dissipated. They noisily stamped up the rickety metal stairway beyond the security checkpoint, aware that they were travelling several storeys upward. Nova Prospket was clearly made to a far grander scale than the diminutive Fortress Delta.

Again, they encountered an access door; not even stopping, Yuza smashed it aside without comment, and she shot the incredibly shocked CP behind it with similar aplomb.

"Right," the Enforcer waved her free hand, "let's head left. The cell rails must converge somewhere."

"What will they do with Quarir?" Nuri asked, following the Domarian with significantly less composure.

"They won't do anything irreversible, at least not anytime soon," Yuza sniffed at the thought. "Mostly they'll run tests on him, just to see how advanced we are. I think they expect us to be very developed, considering how we got hold of the Uclasion's technology."

"Well," Nuri began, eying the Sentinel pistol, "you do seem advanced."

"Not really," Yuza waved her hand, critically examining the first door on their left. "The thing about plasma weaponry is that it's very, very expensive to produce. A kind of prestige project... ah, I think this might be the one."

The door crumpled away after a carefully positioned kick, and, special ops style, she rolled through the opening.

Gunfire broke out before Nuri and Pyotr had even approached the doorway, and by the time they pulled alongside the Enforcer the fight was over. Nuri felt surplus to requirements. At least with Quarir she'd felt like the brains of the outfit but now, without her aid, Yuza had seen to it that there was an orderly row of dead prison guards lying on the platform.

Contrary to Yuza's logic, it appeared to be a razortrain station. The nearby line was far thicker than that which had supported the rows of sarcophagi.

After her initial frustration, another course of action slowly crept to the fore of Yuza's mind. "This might still work. Theoretically we can board the next train and simply get off at a more promising platform."

Nuri examined the area in more detail and then slowly shook her head. "I'm sure this is just used for cargo. There're no boarding ramps or anything."

"Might lead us to the rifle then," Yuza shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Either way, there's nothing stopping us hitching a ride. It won't kill us to jump aboard."

"It will if the vehicle does not stop," Pyotr corrected.

"You Vorts really are optimistic, aren't you?" Yuza sagged in defeat. "Fine! I don't see why I'm tagging along with you people, but we'll follow the corridor instead. You know, it's awfully quiet for a security breach."

"Alert: teleportation protocol was successfully engaged," the Overwatch announcer informed all and sundry, "Addition: intruder's presence still confirmed. Reinforce. Eliminate. Secure."

The platform door slammed shut, or rather tried to: the twisted remains twitched slightly and fell over.

"That'll be Freeman," Yuza grinned. "Glad to see the Resistance put their faith in someone competent for a change."

"You've been watching us?" Nuri exploded incredulously.

"For a year or two. We've put all this off until Freeman arrived, because that man could distract the Combine from nuclear war. I don't know how he does it." Yuza poked her head through the doorway and glanced down the corridor. She pulled it out hurriedly.

"Change of plan," she barked urgently, running back towards the platform, "there's an entire squad of Elites heading our way."

"I thought you were military-grade?"

"Yeah, I am, but just one of their Dark Energy projectiles will turn me inside out and I've had my insides rearranged quite enough for one lifetime!"

Nuri turned back to the noticeably empty railway. "We can't afford to wait for a train."

"Quite right, so we won't," Yuza aimed at her feet and vaporized an access grille. "There must be miles of maintenance tunnels in this place!"

Nuri needed no second bidding. She hopped down into the cramped repair shaft and Pyotr followed. To the accompaniment of deafening pulse fire, Yuza dropped down after them; rebuffing their unspoken concerns, she shoved them ahead, desperately motioning for them to run.

"Any grenades in this thing?" she panted, trying to sprint and open her liberated rucksack at the same time.

Nuri nodded. "I'm pretty sure there are…"

Yuza eventually produced one of cylindrical detonators, and, on hearing the angry approach of static-warped chatter, she primed the grenade and flung it back down the passageway with all the incredible force her augmentations lent her.

The tunnel exploded, belching fire towards them, and numerous fragile components sprinkled from the floor above them. The Elites were no longer in pursuit.

"Great," Yuza smiled humourlessly, "that'll hold them off for a minute while they wonder if I've got any more. Let's go!"

* * *

"Ah," Breen sighed with satisfaction, "so Judith pulled through. I knew she would."

 _Fortunately for you._   _Now ensure that Freeman is similarly ascertained._

"That is out of my hands, as I've told you," Breen tried not to sound exasperated, but he knew it was useless, his Advisor would pick up on his every emotion. "The transhuman forces are trying their best to apprehend him, but..."

_Then their "best" is not sufficient. You will be held accountable if he escapes. Eli Vance alone is not enough to quell your planet's unrest._

The Advisor's image projected from his desktop terminal, a bloated, maggot-like being covered in all manner of psionic amplifier and mind-to-machine uplink. It dominated Breen's office.

"He's recharging the Nova Prospekt teleporter as we speak, I can't be sure of our success."

_It was under-defended. You squandered your transhuman contingent._

"Perhaps they're merely not suited for such prolonged combat," Breen pleaded, "I told you I needed more!"

_Freeman is a human, a human equipped with native technologies. He should be long dead. He is being assisted._

"Yes, you've told me about your discoveries…"

_And clearly you have not noted them. He must be brought to bear. Alive or dead, we must have him, with or without his employer's knowledge._

"There have been complications."

_The Domarian is of little consequence. He is now in our custody._

"Surely that counts for something?" Breen hazarded. "While he is not Freeman, Nalore is certainly an interesting—"

_The Domarian is a mere consolation prize. Freeman is our goal._

"Of course."

The Advisor's shiny, creamy flesh shivered impatiently.

_Project Forty is nearby. We are advising him directly._

" _What?_  But you insisted that all instructions be filtered through me first!"

_Project Forty is an exception. Freeman must be eliminated._

* * *

"Ah, awake are we? That's good to see. It is never advisable to teleport comatose lifeforms. There's a very real concern that you'd never wake up."

Quarir stirred, and doing so caused him to scrape his limbs rather harshly across his restraints. The pain brought him round fully, and he stared at the speaker, an older man in a lab coat.

"What?" is all he could say. His lips, as usual, had kicked into life before the rest of him.

"Drowsy? Don't worry, I merely sedated you while I performed a few tests. Plus it stopped you from cursing. You have quite the vocabulary."

It all came rushing back to Quarir— the nausea-inducing race down the Fortress's tunnel, the arrangement in the ever-scrolling cell depot, the chemicals this bastard had been pumping him full of and, of course, his familiar arsenal of multilingual profanities, which he launched into again.

"I have no idea what 'sweys' means," the scientist said afterwards, "and I suspect I want to keep it that way."

"Who the hell are you anyway?"

"I'm Doctor Howard Worborne. I was a faculty member in the Black Mesa complex, although I doubt you've ever heard of it." Worborne looked tired, his greying hair slicked back either with gel or natural grease. "My former colleagues assumed I died there, but I got out intact and ended up back in my old Administrator's employ."

"I really don't care," Quarir snapped with every ounce of effort. Speech was still hard, so the tranquilizers must have been immensely strong to affect a bion like himself. Unless, as he'd feared, his nanotech had well and truly failed him…

"Good, because I don't feel like relating my life story to an interloper like yourself," Worborne agreed brightly. "The teleporter will recharge soon and then we can send you on your way."

"On my way to where?"

"The Citadel of course. I've performed as many tests as I can with the limited apparatus at my disposal. I'm a biochemist, not a miracle worker." Worborne grinned at his own rather weak joke. "It's been very hectic here. First Freeman barges in, then the Elites swarm over the place trying to locate him... a busy hour indeed. And that Forty? There's an Elite that won't take no for an answer…"

"Freeman was  _here?_ " Quarir looked about himself as the room finally came into focus, a vast chamber with several entrances, all covered with blue security fields. The centrepiece, the device his cell was suspended in front of, was a towering structure with an inbuilt elevator. This was the teleporter?

"He certainly was, although we can't quite determine his present location. Personally, I blame convergence theory. Time dilation is a recognised flaw, but did they give us better facilities?" Worborne sighed, as if he was discussing a government budget. "Of course not! I'm just expected to ferry samples back and forth with Mossman's damn pet project. I may, primarily, just be a geneticist, but I know shoddy work when I see it…"

Quarir tried, unsuccessfully, to look under his feet while ignoring the scientist. He couldn't crane his neck far enough, but it seemed to him that something was glowing beneath the floor, no doubt something to do with the prepping teleporter, which even now was slowly moving its load-bearing elevator into position.

"So, Freeman escaped with Vance?" he asked the bitter teleport-technician casually.

"I can't exactly divulge that now can I? The truth is that I don't know." Either Worborne liked the sound of his own voice, Quarir decided, or he was starved of attention during his usual operations. "You and me, Mr Nalore, we're just pawns in something far higher."

"What's new?" Quarir muttered to himself.

The buzzing teleporter was much louder now, and the elevator was almost touching ground level. It had almost reset.

"Don't worry Mr Nalore," Worborne went over to a vast bank of machinery near the device, "all I need do now is confirm your coordinates and you'll be at the Citadel in a matter of minutes." The scientist hit a key, and Quarir's head swung back as the cell lurched into action. "By the way, I don't suppose you'd like to explain how this rifle works?"

"No."

"Fair enough," Worborne shrugged, pushing the trolley that bore the rifle amidst an array of scanning units closer to the teleporter shaft. "Would've been nice to flesh out my report, that's all."

Quarir had no sympathy, as Worborne had clearly given him an intrusive examination too. His appendages throbbed painfully, and he knew they bore the pinpricks of diffusion injections. He couldn't bear to think of all the gunk now circling his system. Quarir took a look at the lower shelf of the trolley, and disgustedly realised that the vials were probably filled with samples taken directly from him…

Something started beeping, and Worborne whirled round in alarm. The control panel's main terminal was glowing a bright, blinding gold, leaking sparks in all directions. "What on Earth?"

Worborne hopped back over to the navigation unit and gawped at the displays. "This isn't right, it's removed my coordinates! It'll sling you past the Borderworld with no destination!" Worborne fiddled with the controls, trying to cancel the current instructions to no avail.

Quarir's cell shuddered as it swivelled round and locked into place, sitting in the centre of the teleporter. He began rising as the elevator slowly shifted towards the point of synapse, whereby both the upper and lower generators would discharge simultaneously, launching him through the dimensions themselves. Slowly, Nalore wondered how he'd possibly known that would happen…

" _Subconscious transmission,"_  said Maintonon, " _do excuse me."_

Worborne was desperately pounding the panel by now. Panic-stricken, aware of who would get the blame for any accidents, he begged the terminal to respond while his hands wrestled with unyielding controls.

 _Where are you sending me?_  Quarir demanded of the Supercomputer.

" _I am granting you an intermission, Nalore,"_  Maintonon explained. " _There is someone you must meet. An... acquaintance of mine."_

In a burst of indescribable energies, Quarir's cell vanished with him.


	24. Chapter 24

**Intermission**

"Quarir Nalore, we meet at last."

Quarir blinked, and stood up. He wasn't sure how he'd got here and that meant short term memory loss, which was a sure sign of recent dimensional transit. Although he wouldn't remember that for two minutes.

"Please do not assume that I have been… ignoring you. I have worked closely with your… employer, and I can assure you that every step has been taken to… ensure success."

Quarir tried to locate the speaker, but he couldn't: the teleportation, or possibly his continuing struggle against the sedatives, was warping his vision.

No, Quarir realised that it wasn't an optical illusion. The scene before him really had shifted.

He would forever wonder what the original locale had been, but now the setting was a peaceful beach, a far cry from the Antlion-infested straits near City 17. Water lapped on the shores, and seabirds called each other in the distance.

Quarir glanced about himself in confusion. To his surprise the constricting cell had vanished. He was sitting up on the sands, palms acutely aware of the sun-warmed ground. It was pretty damn realistic, but all of 'Ton's simulations were realistic. But then he looked up and decided this wasn't a simulation.

The man was an incongruous sight: an immaculate blue suit, a shirt with a lightly starched collar and one of those reddish ties Quarir associated with government types the galaxy over. And Quarir knew appearances were deceptive…

"It has been quite hectic for you, Mr Nalore… and you may have felt missguided along the way. Do forgive me for acting over your… head, because I'm aware that while I may be assisting your… employer, I'm nevertheless forcing choices upon you."

"I've seen you before," Quarir said suddenly, "when Maintonon short-circuited the computer cabinet."

"Yesss, Mr Nalore I was using the opportunity to observe your… progress. I have been following your actions for… quite some time now although that was the only occasion you noticed."

The figure straightened his already faultless tie. He could've been been in anything from his late forties to his early sixties and his eyes, piercing green orbs amongst harsh features, were as unhinging as his strange method of speech. Talking to the man reminded Quarir strongly of Maintonon, and he again recalled the Supercomputer's warnings regarding those that wished to shape this planet's destiny…

"Why the hell does Maintonon need someone else spying on me?"

"Maintonon needsss very little, Mr Nalore… I was simply expressing an interest."

"What, you're an old friend of his?"

"Friend is such an… odd term when relating to machinery, Mr Nalore. He merely recognises my talents and I… acknowledge his," the government man smiled. "We come together on our… shared aims."

"And that's to undermine the Combine, yeah?"

"You are refreshingly talkative compared to my… usual charge, Mr Nalore. But I would be violating your… employer's polite request if I were to explain."

Quarir felt as if he'd blinked involuntarily, but he knew otherwise: the scene had shifted again. They were standing atop some sort of building. He could see City 17's jagged skyline, still swarming with Hunter-Seeker rotorcraft and energetic Scanners.

"You see," the agent continued, "so many things… can be interpreted most inaccurately by those that are not… involved and are merely observers. That is a core issue, Mr Nalore: what someone thinks, what we want them… to think, and what they should, in fact, be thinking."

Quarir snorted. "You interdimensional types get a big kick out of this crap, don't you?"

The man smiled again. "Perhaps. That, of course, is for you to find out. And for me to wonder what you are thinking. Maintonon is my contingency plan, Mr Nalore... and he has recommended you."

"What does that mean?"

The smile returned again, fleetingly.

"I get it," Quarir grimaced, "don't ask, can't tell. There's no point to this, you get that? If I don't know what I'm doing I can't do anything!"

"That, Mr Nalore, is the point. I am sure I will see you again in the fullness of… time."

Quarir blinked.


	25. Chapter 25

**Grassy Knoll Revisited**

When he opened his eyes, Quarir was elsewhere. Somewhere dim, somewhere indoors.

He stood up, staggering a little, and sent a shelf of paint tins crashing to the floor. Something clanged underfoot, and he wondered why part of the floor seemed to be metal.

Quarir felt woozy, but not nauseous, and matter transference was well known to shake up your insides. So that meant he hadn't been beamed here.

"True" teleportation, as the Domarians knew it, involved breaking any given body up into subatomic particles and flinging them down a digital transmission wave: unsurprisingly, a living creature could not survive the reduplication process once they reached their destination.

Although those that weren't technically minded tend to refer to directed energy transit as "teleportation", the Legion generally resorted to matter transference beams. This basically involved shoving any given entity, organic or otherwise, into a bubble of energy and throwing them through a series of carefully angled magnetic fields. Quarir had undergone this process a few times: once because he was rich enough to afford it and was in a hurry, and once because he'd been arrested and Security was eager to get him behind bars.

Phaseshifting, however, was the Uclasion propulsion method. The Domarians had unashamedly stolen the technology to improve their own ships. Phaseshifting involved getting from A to B by tearing through several billion dimensions and, somehow, using a perfectly-calculated shortcut to pass through C, D, and E and eventually hit B.

But the Domarians had never phaseshifted a lone body: they'd always had gigantic ships, covered in flux suppressors and all manner of safety device. They weren't prepared to risk lives when they still didn't fully understand the process.

But the suited man, with his briefcase and strange mannerisms, could apparently phaseshift individuals at will.

Quarir didn't know what that meant but he didn't think it boded well.

Wooden crates, planks, rusty machine parts... his new location was certainly familiar. There was a humming of machinery, but he couldn't quite place it. Big, drafty shack full of junk... it rang several bells in his slowly reforming memory.

"Quarir Nalore, it is good to see you after all this time."

He looked up to see a Vortigaunt. Was that Pyotr?

"We detected both your flux and your noisome movements, Quarir Nalore. We have long suspected you were in dimensional limbo. It has been three days since you left Nova Prospekt."

Quarir brushed past a cog-covered table, upending it.

The Vort chirped disapprovingly. "Kindly cease your motions until you get your bearings."

 _It's definitely Pyotr,_  Quarir realised,  _he's the only Vort that could manage to sound so chastising._

He shook his head to clear it. "What do you mean, three days?"

"As we said," Pyotr repeated, "it has been three days since you were teleported from the Nova Prospekt nexus." The Vortigaunt pointed to the metal circle on the floor. "That is Grassy Knoll's telepad. It has long been dormant but something activated it. Something allowed you through."

"How odd," Quarir said dully.

"Nuri instructed us to 'drag' the Worborne back with us and he told us your story. It appears the Uclasion Artefact disrupted the teleportation field, rerouting its primitive thread to a different place. Nuri also made that deduction."

"Nuri? You guys came for me?"

"Yes Quarir Nalore, we did," Pyotr bowed his head solemnly. "Regrettably Yuza was injured during our flight from Nova Prospekt."

Quarir blinked. "Who the hell is Yuza?"

"Yuza is the true name of the being you knew as Annie. Yuza is a Domarian Enforcer."

" _What?"_

"She chose to behave so covertly because she predicted that reaction."

"Pyotr," Quarir breathed in deeply, "tell me what the hell is happening!"

"Slow teleportation, Quarir Nalore. That is what this world's greatest minds have dubbed it. The Freeman and the Alyx Vance are trapped between planes as you were. The Worborne calls this a convergence anomaly, resulting in time dilation."

"And is he right?"

"Something secret shapes all our destinies, Quarir Nalore. We will never name it."

"Computers and suited bastards," Quarir groaned quietly, scrolling his hand down his face. "Why the hell did Nuri rescue that Worborne guy anyway?"

"He is a scientist who survived the chaotic breach of Black Mesa. Like Eli Vance he was the leader of his field."

"He's a quantum physicist too?"

"He is known as a 'biochemist' but Nuri had told him that we would feed him to the Antlions if he did not aid with the reactivation of the telepad."

"He managed it?"

"No, Quarir Nalore. As we said, the teleportation frame had long been dormant and the Worborne played no part in its reactivation." Pyotr indicated the pad, which had long-since stopped humming. "He currently believes that the Knoll's survivors will soon dispose of him."

"Quarir?"

It was Nuri. She ran to him, and he'd secretly wondered at the possibility of a hug, but instead she drew to a halt, peered at him, and prodded him in the shoulder, as if checking whether you were corporeal.

"It's you!" she exclaimed. "It worked!"

"Yes and no," Quarir muttered, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

The pad sparked gold, and, atop the tall green hill that gave the base its name, a suited man walked away.

* * *

The reunion didn't maintain its cheery feeling for long. Quarir sat with Nuri, Pyotr and Zosia and listened intently. Nuri explained everything that had happened, and there was very little to feel happy about.

"When we finally got to the teleporter, you were gone," she began, "Worborne was there, gibbering about malfunctions and how he'd lose his job. We dragged him back with us, but we'd already guessed about…" she lowered her voice, "Maintonon."

Quarir nodded. "First time the damn machine has done anything to help for ages."

"Well, we ran like hell. Elites were crawling over the place, since they'd been called in to get Freeman. We took the tunnel back to Delta, and we  _nearly_  made it—"

"I knew that was coming."

"—and then we ran into our old friend. The really tall Elite with all the armour."

"He's still around?"

"And worse than ever. Yuza thought she could take him, but… he…"

"The Fortieth defeated Yuza with ease," Pyotr finished for her. "She was gravely injured."

"Anyway, we run, slam a door in Forty's face, and Pyotr somehow manages to carry Yuza back to where we'd left the APC—"

Pyotr bowed. "We work out routinely."

"—but it was gone. Dropships were converging on the Fort, but Zosia appears—"

"Thanks to Pyotr's directions," Zosia said modestly.

"—in Maggie the van, and we all get onboard and back here as soon as we can."

"You fixed Maggie?" Quarir raised an eyebrow. "Zyke wasn't too happy about stealing her and leaving her as a wreck and all that."

"Ah, I've got over it."

Quarir gaped.

"Why so surprised?" Zyke grinned. "That big bucket of circuits told you I'd survived right? How else do you think Pyotr could communicate with Zosia?"

Nalore stood up so fast that his chair toppled over. He grabbed Zyke's hand and shook it warmly, oblivious to the big man's bone-crunching grip.

"Aren't you afraid you'll catch something?" Zyke said slyly.

"Hey, it'd do me a world of good! I can't believe you lived through that!" Quarir's smile faded slightly as he recalled Zyke's state immediately after his run-in with the Elite's firepower.

"It wasn't pleasant but I'm very, very hard to kill. And believe me, a lot of people have tried." He pulled up a chair and sat in it. It creaked under his weight. "Zosia saw what had happened here and ran all the way to the Dead Pass. Of course, I'd had time to fix Maggie by then, and the soldiers were long gone, chasing after Freeman."

"She 'saw what happened here'?" Quarir repeated back, not understanding.

"We discovered that the Reginald was the betrayer," Pyotr clicked darkly. "But the traitor was himself ambushed. Soon after severing Archibald's tie and murdering Kim, he came across the Arcadimaarian."

Zyke nodded. "I can confirm that. The place reeked of psionic discharge. The Zealot stabbed Reg with his own arm, but god knows the scumbag deserved it, and stole one of our buggies and went after you. We don't know where he is now."

"We fed Reginald to the Antlions but we found space for some graves." Nuri sighed. "I didn't know about Xen customs, but we buried Archibald too."

"We have little interest in the fate of our empty shells," Pyotr explained, "but your sentiment was much welcomed."

"There were more bodies to come," Zyke growled. "Reginald had given our coordinates to the Combine. Gunships and Dropships burnt us to the ground. These two shacks," he gestured sadly, "are all we have left. We made them from the remains and filled them up with what survived."

Quarir swallowed. "What about the Aegis vehicles?"

" _All_  of their vehicles got hit. Maggie's all we've got."

Quarir held his head in his hands. "So who made it?"

"Zosia, as you know— and, incidentally, she knows all about us now—"

"It was hard not to notice how weird you were, certainly," Zosia admitted.

"—and Charlie and three of the Aegis members. They still didn't know so I haven't let them anywhere near Yuza. She's in a regeneration coma, although I don't know if her bionics will cope… not after what Forty did to her."

Quarir shuddered. A regeneration coma was a well-documented recovery process for those with higher-grade augmentations, where the body shut down all non-essential activities in a desperate attempt to undo the damage it had suffered. If Yuza really was an Enforcer, she had five times more nanodrones swirling around her components than Quarir did. Forty must be practically unstoppable now, to best her so easily.

"But now we know what to do," Zyke said firmly.

Quarir goggled. "Uh, we do?"

"Maintonon's contingency. He told me about it all those years ago. We're to aid in the uprising."

"You  _what?_ "

"Zyke's been talking about this a lot," Nuri grinned nervously, as if she agreed in principle, but not action. "Mr. Calhoun has been on the radios, trying to start up the revolution Dr. Vance talked about for so long…"

"He had the right idea! I say we go to the Citadel. Freeman's not coming back, at least not soon." Zyke clenched his fists. "There's a lot of work for men like us, Quarir."

"What do you mean, 'men like us'?"

"Men who don't fall apart after one pulse round. Men who know there are other worlds out there, other worlds the Combine has its avaricious eyes on. We have to stop them somehow. You've seen what they're like!"

"Yeah, well…"

"Whether you go or not, I will. Barney Calhoun is the first sensible Resistance leader I've heard from. You've been saying the same thing all along, and you were both right: we've got to take the battle to the Combine.

"I remade myself from the ground up. Molecular self-manipulation makes Rots freaks but it makes us powerful freaks. I'm not much of a telepath anymore but I'm a damn good psychokinetic. And with the gauntlet Nuri brought back, I'm even better."

All eyes were on him. Zichekoam was back and in full form, effortlessly falling back into his leader's role.

Zyke pulled the amplifier gauntlet on, and sparks crackled from his fingertips. "I say we put our own contingency plan into action."


	26. Chapter 26

**Glory**

"Can the Combine detect us from here?"

"Of course not. If they could we would not be here. You give the slugs too much credit."

The war room looked more like a lounge. The Arcadimaarians were a race of hedonistic elitists, an immensely arrogant empire that somehow prevailed despite the constant infighting between their houses. They put luxury before all else.

The ACS Glorious was a Sunspear, one of their smallest warships. But, nevertheless, the sleek craft was a mile long and adorned with hideously efficient fusion weaponry. Nesthilius was fully aware that they could wipe every settlement off the Earth's disgusting face.

But that would be a mistake. For all his conceit, for all his disdain of lesser beings, he knew that the Combine should not be trifled with. They possessed Synth that could exist in a vacuum, bio-mechanical titans that could put a Strider to shame. Conflict was not  _always_  a sport to be revelled in.

"But can they detect the Domarian?" he asked of his general.

"Oh, undoubtedly. We do not understand why the Traitor Mainframe would expose itself so brashly. It cannot possibly hope to liberate this pitiful world with one man."

"The question is why it would bother in the first place," Nesthilius rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

They looked at the schematic board, an incredibly ornate device that looked more like a crystal ornament than a tactics analyser. "The Zealot has searched repeatedly, killing approximately fifty Combine lackeys during his travels, but he cannot find the Domarian. He cannot even locate this 'Freeman'."

Either primate would make a superb trophy, they knew. If anyone could procure the corpses, their Zealot would do it. A Zealot was an incredibly efficient assassin: a nameless killing machine that succeeded in its objective or died trying. They were quite mindless, but good at what they did.

The ACS Glorious continued its encircling of the world... at a respectable distance, of course. No use tempting fate: the Combine rarely gave spatial defences to new worlds and Earth  _was_  new, being their property for less than two decades... but the risk of long-ranged distortion arrays was not to be taken lightly.

"We must continue scanning, particularly for this 'Freeman'. Killing that which has dogged the Combine so successfully would be quite the achievement," Nesthilius waved a hand over the board and it dimmed.

"Yes," the general sipped his beverage. He actually looked nervous. "I don't suppose there's any chance that the Combine would notice our scanning?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

* * *

This was a source of some amusement to Breen's Advisor.

_What a pathetic collection of pompous thieves._

"Thieves?" Breen blinked confusedly.

_They, too, harvested the Extinct's technology and called it their own._

"I meant, who are the pathetic collection of...?"

_If you cannot be bothered to monitor your own equipment, you are not worthy of it. Concentrate on locating Freeman._

The connection was severed.

* * *

"Will she make it?" Nuri asked quietly, already fearing that she knew the answer.

"Beats me. She sure is a mess, though. Looks like someone chiselled bits off her."

"Quarir, that was in very bad taste."

"Sorry."

But Yuza did look like stonework. Her limbs were twisted so far back it was amazing she still retained them, and most of her flesh was mottled with scalds of a strangely pale hue. Her reparation protocols were responsible for her bizarre appearance: she looked like a horrible piece of modern sculpture. Forty's pulse weapon must have been of insanely high velocity to do so much damage.

"Makes me glad I'm just a freak and not a bion," Zyke said matter-of-factly, leaning over the poor woman's mattress.

"Yeah, well my nanotech is already drained," Quarir slapped his chest meaningfully. "I don't seem to regenerate."

"Bit of a drawback," Zyke agreed.

"I'm not surprised," Nuri smiled, "considering how many bullets you've taken."

Zyke raised an eyebrow. "You better get them removed. If your bionics really have died on you, you don't want lead clogging up your system. Besides, the others might notice. Let me get them out for you..." Zyke, suddenly holding a huge pair of tweezers, advanced on him.

"Uh, without anaesthetic?" Quarir backed away.

"Well, we'll see what we can find. But it's either that or eventually dying of lead poisoning," Zyke warned him.

"I don't think pulse rounds are made of lead."

"Bizarre-Combine-alloy poisoning then."

* * *

Covered in bandages and none too pleased about it, Quarir watched as Zyke argued with the three Aegis members. But despite his painful surgeries, he felt better already. Perhaps he should have bothered to remove the bullets sooner...

They had gathered in what was left of the village hall to discuss matters. Or, as Quarir saw it, have a blazing row.

Zyke, who had finally set aside the cape after admitting it looked absurd, was having a hard time persuading the disheartened Aegis members to leave.

"You're being difficult!" Zyke snarled. "I know you don't have the squad anymore, but we don't need vehicles to fight back!"

"We should move on, there's nothing for us here now." Charlie was all for it, so it was a pity they thought so little of his opinion.

"Yeah, Aegis is gone," Zosia said firmly. "We don't have cars to service anymore."

"Yeah? The cars are all we had," said Gregory, the former head of Aegis. "Our only ace was burned but the Combine has a great hand."

Quarir had decided he didn't like Gregory. He used far too many allegories. "Well, we'll just cheat then."

"How?"

"I don't know," Quarir snapped, "you're the guy who keeps using stupid metaphors. What's your obsession with cards anyway?"

Gregory stood up, grim faced, pushing his chair back.

"Oh, give it a rest," Quarir shook his head. "Just quit with the whole moping thing and come with us. We could use a guy like you."  _As a decoy,_  he added privately,  _something to distract the Combine._

"Nine of us? In one van?" Gregory sneered.

"Ten," Nuri corrected, "Yuza will pull through." She realised that the statement hadn't helped their argument and went quiet again.

"Maggie's a big van," Zyke continued, "it'll be a very tight squeeze, but we'll fit."

"What do you say?" Charlie grinned in what he hoped was an endearing manner. He just looked ill.

"I don't see why we shouldn't," said Aegis's only woman survivor.

Gregory whirled on her. "Ruth!"

"Oh, do what the weird guy says and give it a rest. We need to do something."

Nuri decided she quite liked Ruth. "She's right, you know," she said kindly. "And the longer we wait the harder it'll be."

"Just so," said Pyotr.

"What about you Struer?" Zyke looked to the last man.

"I go where Ruth goes," Struer rumbled. She and him shared a telling smile. Quarir wondered why he was the only one who never seemed to get any action, despite being the heroic type.

Gregory threw his hands in the air despairingly. "Fine, but you're all wasting your time..."

They heard a loud, urgent droning. A Gunship.

"Hey, you're welcome to stay behind," Quarir was already moving toward Maggie. "But I really wouldn't recommend it."

* * *

"If it didn't follow us, it can't have been interested in us. We should've stayed and rebuilt."

"Rebuilt what?" Zyke snapped at Gregory. "There was nothing left.  _Nothing._ "

"There was the teleporter! It picked up this Nailer guy, so it worked just fine. We could've used that to—"

"The teleportation device was primitive and lost its battle with the phase flux," Pyotr interrupted him. "It will never function again."

"And it's 'Nalore'," Quarir corrected him irritably.

Maggie was, as Kim so proudly told them, a converted police-response vehicle. But time and repairs had sapped her strength, and so the hideously overcrowded van knocked them all around terribly. Or would have, if there was enough room for them to be knocked.

Zosia and Nuri were upfront. Quarir wasn't sure which of them was at the controls, but by the sounds of it one of them was a terrible backseat driver. They rarely stopped arguing. And since their passengers were similarly belligerent, the trip was not pleasant.

But they  _had_  avoided the Gunship. It had taken a few token shots at them but had flown past, intent on other business. Pyotr had explained that the conflict in City 17 had escalated to the point that entire residential districts had taken up arms instead of a few diminutive Resistance cells. The Combine, quite sensibly, was putting all other activities on hold in order to best defend their core city.

Yuza, wrapped heavily in blankets to disguise her condition, didn't even breathe. But she had a pulse, and none of the Aegis members were knowledgeable of medicine, so they didn't think her condition to be unnatural. They were, however, clearly agitated by the fact that she was taking up so much room; laid flat across the van's base on a thin mattress, amongst the squatting refugees and the few supplies they'd had remaining.

"You see that up ahead?" someone asked from the front, flipping the viewing hatch open.

The passengers cautiously lifted the protective screens aside and looked out. City 17, as huge as ever, was burning, its south-eastern quarter a mess of flaming rubble. Mortar Synths lumbered through the wreckage, flattening remnants underfoot as their shells devastated further swathes of the slums.

"Yes, much of the conflict occurred in the south," Pyotr said without looking. "Their transhuman contingent is outnumbered but far more durable than the average being. With their superior equipment and Synth support they are repelling the Resistance's attacks."

"What about the other cities?" Charlie asked the Vort, prodding him.

Pyotr's kind were infinitely patient at times. "Many have fled the outlying cities, seeking refuge in Resistance camps or moving on to swamp the Citadel under a horde of the repressed. Eli Vance's capture was the  _lith-tirr'st'rel_  that broke the bullsquid's back."

"See? Everyone else is taking action," Quarir told Gregory, a touch too smugly.

Aegis's embittered leader scowled at the raging fires. "The Vort didn't mention all the deaths though, did he? There'll be thousands."

"We intend to fight for the future, rather than for our lives," Pyotr bowed his head. "That may appear to be an illogical concept. The future is an intangible resource. But we have learnt to value the teachings of Eli Vance beyond all others."

"He's got a point, Cap," Struer attempted to mollify his colleague. "You always talked about taking the battle to the Combine."

"Back then I thought we had a chance! Now, it's all gone..."

"Oh, shut up!" Zyke snarled. "We were just one cell, a tiny group in a network of hundreds! Stone Well, New Little Odessa, the Lighthouse, Iron Bridge… and now the people themselves have finally joined us, as we've wanted all along!"

Nalore smiled. Zyke had taken to the Resistance's cause in his three long years of Supercomputer-imposed exile.

_So have you. I can feel it._

Quarir stared across the van.  _I thought you weren't much of a telepath now?_

Zyke shrugged mentally.  _I'm not. I can barely send and receive across ten feet. But you're pretty close to me and not trying to keep me out. If I can pick up a signal from a Vort, I can read you._

What was that like? Tapping into their Vortessence, or whatever it's called?

Zyke shuddered, but everyone had lapsed into a thoughtful silence and didn't notice.  _I never want to do it again. I only got inside because they let me. I mean, Pyotr let us know what was happening but if the Supercomputer had a mind, it'd be like that. It was huge. I felt I'd drown there. It wasn't nice._

Zyke looked up. "Hey, this isn't the direction we planned," he called out accusingly.

"We're taking a detour," Zosia replied, "we spotted a pair of APCs circling the hill. We don't want to attract attention to ourselves."

"Good thinking. Keep your eyes peeled."

Zosia nodded, and slid the hatch shut, apparently tiring of Zyke's tips.

 _You know, Maintonon will go nuts,_  Nalore thought, wondering if Zyke's connection was still present. That was a daunting, invasive prospect… if he dared to think about it.

_Because this wasn't part of his plan? He'll have to live with it. It's not as if we're doing it for the glory. We're helping people, people who need it. I've sat on my ass long enough. In fact, this is the second ass I've had to sit on, factoring in the regeneration and all. This ass is going to see some real action._

Uh…

Yeah, I've just realised how bad that sounds.

To take their minds away from buttock exercise, Zyke rapped his knuckles on the hatch. "We nearly there?"

"Yes, we're approaching the camp," came the reply. "Won't be long now."

Ruth looked at the Rot questioningly. "What camp?"

"Stone Well," Zyke elaborated. "It'd be safer to recoup there then going past all the Synth. It's just a pity they don't have a Vort stationed."

"Ah, Stone Well," Struer nodded in recognition. "We refuelled there, once or twice."

"Don't remind me," Gregory growled.

Something screamed overhead.

"What the hell was that?" Charlie covered his ears.

"Mortars," Nuri shouted. "They're shelling Stone Well!"

Another piercing whistle of tearing air, this time followed by a bone-shaking crunch. Maggie suddenly crashed into something: metal squealing, passengers shouting, the noise went on for some time.

"We just crashed into a mortar," Zosia said, trying to calm them down, "but it's not explosive, I think it's a dud  _oh god! It's full of headcrabs!"_

There was screeching of a different kind, the eager chirping of the parasites and the clinking of glass as they threw themselves at the windscreen, not understanding why they couldn't latch onto the promising organisms within.

"Right, everybody out!" Zyke took charge again. "There could be an explosive mortar following, we can't stay in here!"

Maggie's back opened, but not because of his instructions. Twisted and buckled, the two doors were tearing in the clawed hands of gurgling zombies.


	27. Chapter 27

**Beneath Enemy Lines**

Gregory laughed dryly. "Nice plan of yours!"

"Shut up!" Zyke barked at him, ripping the top off a supply crate and producing an SMG.

Quarir, far from their equipment but perilously close to one of the gargling mutants, lashed out with his boot. It connected, and there was grunt of pain, but the zombie's sheer strength allowed it to retain its footing. The other creature peeled off the door and flung it aside, and it laughed its alien laugh, mud raining down upon it as a second mortar crashed nearby.

Zyke liberally sprayed the beast with gunfire, and it spasmodically toppled backward into the churning earth. The other, sporting a bloody, boot-shaped imprint on its headcrab, reached out for Nalore's leg, snarling hungrily. With some effort the Domarian peeled the 'crab off and flung the dying parasite away from them.

"Get out!" Zyke bellowed at them, "Quickly!"

Everyone poured from the rear, grabbing what they could. Zyke was infuriated on seeing Gregory ignore Yuza in favour of an ammunition box, but he silently hefted up the comatose woman and followed after the fleeing contingent.

Zosia and Nuri, suitably shaken and filthy, came after them, fleeing a smoking driver's cab that was now thoroughly covered in squeaking headcrabs.

"Why aren't they following us?" Charlie indicated the van, even as they scrambled behind a steady-looking formation of boulders.

Pyotr followed the man's finger. Chirruping parasites adorned the van's front. "A potential host must be nearby."

The truth hit Nuri like a bomb. "Worborne! We left him in there!"

Struer's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Can't he get out himself?"

"We tied him up and put him upfront," Zosia gasped, "we didn't trust him!"

"Leave him," said Gregory, and from the look on his face Zyke was, for once, inclined to agree.

"We can't do that," Nalore stood up heroically. "I'll go after him."

No one tried to stop him, which hurt his feelings somewhat, but Quarir wanted the man alive for purely self-serving reasons. He'd totally forgotten about his existence but he needed to know what the Combine knew about him; Worborne was as good a source as anyone, and he was probably going to be more talkative if his interviewer had recently saved his life.

Quarir ran towards the stricken van, jumping slightly as another mortar crashed into the hillside, almost crushing him with shattered rock. He pulled up at the front door. A headcrab leapt from the roof eagerly, but he swatted it aside casually and pulled himself in.

Worborne was inside, mumbling urgently- he'd been gagged as well as tied up, explaining his silence during the trip. Quarir made as if to grab the scientist but saw the headcrab on the chair between them: on realising that it was no longer dealing with immobile prey, the parasite backflipped towards Nalore's fresher cranium.

In a macabre moment of multitasking, Quarir grappled with the creature, waving it in an effort to smash it to pieces on the dashboard, while simultaneously trying to drag Worborne clear. They abruptly dropped to the ground, and Worborne swore in muffled pain. Quarir hurled the headcrab onto the bonnet, put the restrained Worborne over his shoulder, kicked another curious Xenian towards the horizon, and ran for his life.

Moments later an explosive mortar hit Maggie dead on. The van was annihilated along with its latest alien passengers, vanishing in a cloud that was part fiery oblivion, part earthy murk.

Quarir dropped Worbone onto the mossy ground and collapsed against the boulder, breathing rapidly in exhaustion and elation. Zyke opened his mouth to comment, possibly to congratulate him, possibly to bemoan the loss of Maggie, but a burst of pulse rounds silenced them all.

Everyone crouched low, taking cover behind a rock which now seemed inadequately sized: bullets cracked and whistled off every facet of their craggy shelter.

Zyke was hit in the shoulder but the wound angered the Rot more than anything else and he returned fire without hesitation. The Aegis team, Nuri, Charlie... everyone was trying to take out their attackers, but amidst all the smoke and the constant rain of grass sods Quarir wondered if anyone could see a thing.

Pyotr, however, wasn't affected. There was a cry of pain and the flat line of a soldier's monitoring unit as the Vort sent lightning crackling into the fog of war.

"Stone Well was a small outpost," Struer bellowed, "why are they nuking it like this?"

And Quarir, who had actually seen a thermonuclear bombardment during his planet-hopping years, conceded that the Combine  _were_  practically nuking the base. Stone Well had been more camp than headquarters, a few tents and the odd shack, but now nothing was left. Stone Well had been reduced to a series of smoking craters and flattened dwellings. There must have been an entire platoon of Mortar Synths encircling them.

"They've stopped the bombardment," Ruth suddenly noted. It had been more than thirty seconds since the last mortar fell.

"We see further oppressors approaching on foot," Pyotr explained, "there are two carrier vehicles beyond that outcropping."

"Damn," Zyke rubbed at his shoulder, "Right, let's go. Quarir, get Worborne untied, we don't want to carry the bastard everywhere. Everyone else, head up the hill. If I'm right we'll find somewhere to hide."

Gregory clearly didn't have much faith in Zyke's leadership. "And if you're wrong?"

"Then you're dead," the Rot said simply, his tone implying that the Aegis leader would die at  _his_  hands if not the Combine's.

They ran off, carrying Yuza's still-unconscious body between them. Muttering, Quarir struggled with Worborne's bonds, deciding that whoever had tied him up must have been a boy scout that had turned to S&M in later life: the knots were ridiculous. Eventually sheer strength and persistence paid off and the ropes shredded. Worborne hurriedly pulled the saliva-sodden rag out of his mouth and spat to rid himself of the taste.

"Oh, thanks so much," he groaned, and Quarir wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not. On hearing the distant crackle of radio chatter and the occasional rattle of heavy boots on gravel, Quarir grabbed him and unceremoniously ran off towards the top of Stone Well's hill.

The team was there, gratefully examining a massive crater with a similarly huge hole at its heart, littered with charred stone.

"This is Stone Well itself," Zyke explained, obviously relieved his hunch had paid off, "it leads to a tunnel network, some medieval, some the remains of an old sewage works."

"Sounds great," Gregory sniffed derisively…. and then wished he hadn't, because he got a nose full of elderly effluent.

Zyke waved them down. "Hop in, it's not as deep as you think. I'll pass Yuza down."

They hesitated.

"Don't just stand there, the soldiers will be here any minute!"

Eventually Ruth took the first followed hurriedly after she went down, and Gregory reluctantly climbed after them. Charlie hopped in gleefully, but after a rattling noise and a few grunts it seemed that Stone Well wasn't quite as shallow as Zyke had thought.

"She's headcrabbed!" Nuri screamed.

Quarir span round: aghast, the refugees were staring at Yuza, a headcrab sat smugly atop her skull.

"We've got to remove it before it's too late," Zosia shuddered, and Zyke, guiltily laying the Enforcer on the ground, obligingly took aim…

"Oh, I'm quite all right. Bit of a blessing really."

Yuza stood up, patting her headcrab experimentally.

"It's not exactly comfortable- and I can't see much except red- but I think the mutagens it's pumping into me are really helping matters. Kick-started the muscles and everything."

"What the hell?" said Nalore.

"Good grief," said Zosia.

"Urgh," said Worborne.

"Hmm," said Zyke thoughtfully.

The strange bulges and wrinkles caused by Yuza's hasty nanotechnological reparations were fading and shrinking and the grey tinge had already left her skin.

"It seems the warper of existence has benefited her," Pyotr mused philosophically.

"Are you guys all right?" Charlie's voice echoed from the depths.

"Fine," Zyke bellowed. He turned back to Yuza. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"No," Yuza assured him, "I don't think they start chewing on your cerebral cortex until after the prelim alterations. I believe that happens within thirty seconds on non-serumites, but since they don't seem to be affecting me, well, I'm fine. Like I said, it's a blessing." She realised something. "You'd be Zichekoam right? We haven't met."

"Can we keep the introductions for after?" Nuri shivered. "Preferably when you've taken that thing off!"

"Halt," barked an amplified voice.

An Elite stood facing them. He wasn't, to Quarir's relief, the huge one Pyotr had called the "Fortieth".

The perative waved his pulse rifle threateningly. "Drop your weapons and accompany me to—"

"Excuse me?"

The Elite, despite all his training, turned towards Yuza... and got a thoroughly bemused headcrab thrown onto his face.

Yuza was already scrambling down the well's slick sides, perfectly intact except for some tiny puncture wounds. "Thought the 'crab deserved a second chance. Coming?"

They positively flung themselves into Stone Well, leaving the Elite to wrestle with the fortuitous headcrab.

* * *

The tunnels beneath Stone Well were damp, dark, and alive with moss and lichen. Just what Quarir had expected. But compared to the radioactive depths of Ucelsia's Catacombs, which he'd sheltered in for almost a week, these were quite pleasant.

Quarir had once compared his situations to his life's highlights and had thus found fault in just about everything. But now he searched his various experiences for something  _worse_ , and thus found himself considering that, despite appearances, he was much better off than he had been.

"What you thinking about?" Nuri asked him softly.

"What I've just stepped in."

"I wouldn't look, if I was you."

"You know," Charlie said cheerfully, "when you went on about medieval tunnels I was certain this'd be a crypt or something. You know, zombies and stuff."

"I'm sure there  _is_  a crypt in here somewhere," Zyke told him, "but headcrabs need reasonably fresh bodies."

"Oh, I meant generic undead," Charlie elaborated, "you know, supernatural shenanigans. And chainsaws."

Zyke didn't bother replying to any of his comments after that.

They had torches and they carried the equipment between them. They made good progress. Both Yuza and Worborne were mobile again.

They'd expressed mild interest at Yuza's miraculous revival and total apathy towards Worborne's rescue... and the scientist, depressed by the lot of them, wisely kept mum about the nature of three of their members.

The group could still hear the sounds of combat from above and they knew that wherever they emerged, they'd likely have a fight on their hands.

Zyke felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched because a pulse round had perforated it no more than ten minutes ago. But he recognised Yuza's intention and slowed his pace so that the two of them could follow behind and talk with no risk of discovery.

"You're acting without Maintonon's permission, aren't you?" Yuza stated sternly.

"Probably," Zyke smiled. "He's ignored us, so I'm taking charge. I've already died once for that cybernetic bastard."

"Stop calling him that!" she hissed.

"Why? It's a decent description. I've been here for more than three years. I've seen what these people have lived with. This isn't just some mission to me any more. Hell, it never was.  _I_  wasn't paid for this," he added accusingly.

"So it's because I'm an Enforcer?"

"Damn right. I don't hop around the galaxy meddling with people's lives, not caring what I do."

"If we cared, we'd end up doing what you're doing." Yuza leant closer and lowered her voice even more. "Risking lives without backup and without authority."

"Oh, shut up!" Zyke roared, and the whole group turned round, startled. "If that selfish scum-core cared, he'd send Grandcruisers! Blast the Citadel to pieces, evacuate everyone, and get them the hell away from the Combine!" He sneered, made a dismissive gesture and stalked off.

"It's not that easy and you know it!" She ran after him, grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. "The Combine better us in every specification that matters. Covertness is our only choice! To do anything else would be suicide!"

Zyke shook her off him. "Touch me again and I'll pull your arm off."

"Oh?" Yuza drew herself up to her full height. She was a very tall woman, but Zyke was even taller. "I'd like to see you try."

"Really?" Zyke's voice was quieter now, more menacing. "I may not be packed full of bionics but I've had hundreds of years to master my body. Want to push your luck?"

Quarir, fearing they'd say or do something they'd all regret, ran forward and pulled them apart, temporarily forgetting the fact that either of them could've torn him in half. "I'm probably the last person who should be saying this but: tone it down. We need to keep going."

Exchanging glances of pure hatred, the two walked off into the darkness.

"What was that all about?" Gregory watched them go. "Someone else thinking he's got all the leadership ability of a concussed barnacle?"

"What did we say about metaphors?" Zosia warned him, but Quarir knew what she was thinking.

Like Nuri before them, those of the rebels "in the know" were undoubtedly trying to understand why the Domarian Legion hadn't intervened more forcibly. Nalore had realised himself that the Combine were too strong. They wouldn't survive a direct conflict, but to the likes of Zyke, blinded by a desire to aid the communities they'd come to love, failing to intervene directly was inexcusable.

Worborne looked at him pityingly. "A little disruption in your command structure, Domarian?"

"I'll disrupt your structure if you don't get lost, Slick," Nuri waved her revolver and the man backed off.

Quarir allowed himself a smile. "Slick?"

"It suits him. It was either that or 'Greasy'." She returned his smile. "Listen, me and Zosia know what you're trying to do and we think it's great. We don't exactly understand your political situation but we're, well, we're with you."

"I don't think anyone understands it," Quarir sighed.

Water splashed, and something guttural cried out. Weapons were readied in anticipation of zombies, whether mutants or the sorcerous undead Charlie had expected- but Pyotr waved his three hands for them to stop.

"Cease your hostilities, that is the call of an adult bullsquid. We shall investigate," Pyotr lurched off in the spirit of discovery.

"Uh," said Struer, "he's actually  _looking_  for a bullsquid?"

Yuza cocked her head. "Bullsquid?"

"An amphibious predator. But you'd know that, if you actually expressed an interest in this world."

Yuza ignored Zyke's snide remark and watched the enacting drama.

Pyotr slowly moved toward a shallow puddle, illuminated by all their flashlights. Sitting at its centre, watching them all curiously, was a bizarre animal: a muscular, grunting creature that looked, predictably, like a squid with a pair of legs. Its limbs looked part ostrich, part cattle, hoofed with reversed knees, and its razor-toothed mouth was surrounded by long, gently swaying tentacles. The whole thing had a pale, mottled skin, which glistened either with natural luminosity or the water it had been splashing its way through.

Despite Pyotr's assurances, several guns were pointed at the alien. Bullsquids were renowned for their short tempers and territorialism.

"Gr'gol-tal-na," Pyotr chirped quietly, taking a step into the puddle.

The bullsquid growled and gnashed its teeth, tentacles twitching in warning.

"Gr'gol-tal-na," Pyotr repeated.

The bullsquid roared like its bovine namesake, and lunged forward. It stopped at the last minute, narrowly avoiding flattening Pyotr and also evading certain death at the hands of the nervous refugees.

"It is merely displaying its usual defensive characteristics," Pyotr guaranteed them. "Many of these animals were trained in ages gone by. As it has not yet attacked, this must be one of the intelligent beasts."

Nuri swallowed, checking her pistol's safety for the third time. "Are you suggesting some of them are  _tame?_ "

"No, merely trained. I am sure I can instruct it to let us past. Gr'gol-tal-na," Pyotr said again.

The animal howled.

Pyotr, drawing his leg back, kicked it in the head with his chitinous foot plate. "Gr'gol-tal-na!"

The bullsquid squinted in confusion.

"Be at ease," Pyotr repeated impatiently, seeing their guns rise yet again, "we are merely introducing physical stimuli in order to trigger the animal's—"

The bullsquid dived forward, and there was a crunch, followed by a long pause.

"We were incorrect," Pyotr admitted. "Kindly execute the beast before it bites through our leg."


	28. Chapter 28

**Vanguard**

"Come in Overwatch. This is patrol four. Repeat: we've discovered an unlicensed vehicle on the sector outskirts."

Jacques and Knowles didn't really go by their names anymore: they lived by their precinct identifiers and aptitude ratings. But they were just human. The Metrocops lacked the massively technological implants of the military transhumans.

They'd joined up for fair rations and total job security. Both had once been factory workers for City 17's once-flourishing automotive industry. Now every vehicle had been decommissioned except for those that the Combine had manufactured. Everything else had been scrapped, probably ending up as some essential component in a pulse rifle. Any given vehicle would be "unlicensed", if one discounted the hulking armoured automobiles the Overwatch favoured.

This car, however, was clearly custom-built. Only the diesel engine appeared to be factory made. An off-road buggy; bare chassis, elongated air vents for use underwater, perhaps a scout vehicle stripped clean of all excess weight. It was spattered with blood stains, some the rusty red of men, others the fading yellow of Antlions.

"Repeat, Overwatch. Vehicle matches description from Fortress Beta report," Knowles continued talking calmly into his radio. "Requesting scanners and Synth support."

They enforced the Combine's laws to the letter, but they were never brutal, never unduly cruel to the civilian populace. They'd nodded along to the propaganda, once, merely hell-bent on finding a new profession; but over time they'd come to believe that the Union truly wanted what was best for mankind.

And now the damnable Resistance was trying to end it all. There had been heavy casualties on all sides and while the pair was in no doubt as to who would win, they feared for their own lives: despite the increasing hostilities, they were equipped only with SMGs and basic mesh armour. If it hadn't been for their squadron captain's wrangling, they'd probably still be toting pistols.

"It's no good," Knowles terminated his connection. "I can't get through to them. There's some kind of interference."

"Well, we can only hope this isn't  _his_  car," Jacques shuddered.

Freeman had indeed driven a scout buggy of this kind before his bizarre disappearance but a Dropship had abducted that abandoned car and impounded it. This was a different transport, but it belonged to a similarly destructive owner: it was said that a humanoid, in strange garb, had obliterated the forces stationed at three of Nova Prospekt's outlying fortress precincts.

He was now thought to be systematically destroying the outposts surrounding City 17, leaving charred corpses and flaming garrisons in his wake. He could not be identified, and the scanners had gathered no cohesive intelligence. But it went without saying that the mysterious wanderer was highly dangerous.

And now a car that could well be his was parked outside their perimeter defences…

"That's  _my_  combustion-engine vehicle, thank you very much."

Knowles's head snapped backwards with a sickening crunch, twisted by an arc of energy that crackled from out of nowhere.

Jacques turned, driven mad by fear, and looked into the blank white eyes of the sneering Zealot. The Arcadimaarian's next gesture cleaved him in two, leaving two steaming halves to sizzle on the ground.

"Come in patrol four.. Do not attempt to apprehend the suspect: leave the area immediately and await backup—"

The Zealot glanced at the primitive communicator, and then crushed it effortlessly, sprinkling the shards on its former owner's corpse.

Almost a mile away, atop the massive civil building that was now the Overwatch Nexus, Forty watched a lone vehicle circle the city, patiently trying to locate a gap in their defences.

He made a mental note to eviscerate the driver, and then followed his assigned unit into a Dropship's transport bay.

* * *

The Vortigaunt turned away from whatever transdimensional conversation it was holding and addressed the group directly. "Pyotr reports that the oppressor's elite soldiers are in pursuit."

Kat nodded. "Do you still think it's safe to collapse the tunnel, Sam?"

"It will not be safe for anyone still within its confines," Sam closed his central eye in contemplation. "Nevertheless, if our allies can reach us in time, we can crush their pursuers with impunity."

"Don't we need it as an escape route? You know, to get to Stone Well."

"Nah, the north-eastern tunnel's safest. There's a dozen bullsquid living down that way. If anything, Calhoun will be glad we did it."

The two men chuckled and began setting parsimonious amounts of explosives on the sagging wooden shoring, preparing for the planned collapse as they had all agreed.

Kat sighed and rubbed some life into her pained eyes. She couldn't remember their names and although they probably couldn't recall hers either, the fact bothered Kat. She prided herself on knowing much of the community, by title if not personally, and felt that it was a grim reminder of how hectic things had become that there were so many fresh recruits.

Of course they'd all prayed for that but now that the Resistance had been flooded with raw human resources (a polite way, Barney had said, of calling them "clumsy civilians") management had become hellish. Granted, that wasn't Kat's calling and never would be; but with so many converging on their position from both outlying Resistance cells and purely civilian districts the huge facility that they'd dubbed "Vanguard" had become a logistical nightmare.

They had supplies aplenty, and fortunately for every new face there was a hugely competent veteran like Barney, but it would never be easy.

A Black Mesa survivor who now bore the rank of the Resistance's commander-in-chief, Barney Calhoun had rallied every group towards freeing Eli Vance. Despite Freeman's inexplicable departure Nova Prospekt had been crippled and with it one of the Combine's biggest garrisons and most foreboding punishments had been removed from play.

But the push towards the Citadel had stalled. Now they lay in wait within Vanguard, exchanging constant fire with the innumerable choppers and Gunships the Combine threw at them. The Civil Protectorate had no wish to crush them just yet, they merely aimed to keep them busy while they dealt with the more urgent insurgencies closer to home.

Barney talked always of assaulting the Nexus, of opening the inner compound's gate and disabling the suppressor unit that rained destructive fire down on anyone within three kilometres, and it was a vision they all shared. Although not all of the Resistance shared his optimism, namely his heartfelt belief that Freeman would return again.

"All done," said one of the nameless demolitionists.

"Yeah," the other slapped his hands together theatrically, "if it's good with you Kat, we'll head back now."

"I'll be fine," she assured them,, "Sam can always tell me what to do."

"Indeed. We are always glad to render assistance."

The two nodded gratefully and went towards the Vanguard's "battlements"- the former processing plant's rooftop, currently an explosion of improvised barricades. They took several stairways and passed dozens of busy rebels en route. Vanguard never slept.

Well. Sam never slept, at least to Kat's knowledge, and neither did she. But unlike the Vort, she  _needed_  sleep, and the constant combat was wearing her down. She stifled a yawn, and began thinking of whales. Big, tireless whales, majestic denizens of the deep. Although no doubt the Combine had butchered them all for organic ballast...

"We have arrived!" a Vort cried urgently, "Prepare your charges!"

Kat noted the two twists of wire that the demomen had left on the floor. She gripped them and prepared to act. "We're ready!" she cried down the tunnel.

A large group, far bigger than she had been lead to expect, burst out of the shaft, followed by amplified shouts and bursts of pulse fire. Sam raised a hand, indicating that all were present, and she touched the two cables together: there was a spark of current and two dull thuds in the passage's depths.

For a horrible moment it seemed the tunnel would remain intact but then with a roar of pouring stone and sifting dust the entrance collapsed.

An Elite's Dark Energy orb, trailing particles, zipped overhead and rebounded off some distant support girders before detonating. It caused a rusty portion of gantry way to collapse, but everyone was more preoccupied with what  _hadn't_  made it inside. Their relief was palpable.

"That was well planned," breathed a tall man. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I just activated them, it was Sam's idea."

The Vort nodded modestly.

"You're Katya, right?" The man squinted at her. "I'm afraid I can't remember your surname."

"Orovjek, Katya Orovjek, but everyone calls me Kat. I primarily deal with animal behaviours, but at the moment I feel like the on-site anthropologist."

"I'm Zichekoam," Zyke shook her hand, "but everyone calls me Zyke."

"Zichekoam…" Kat rolled the name over her tongue.

Zyke nodded, resorting to his well-rehearsed arsenal of lies. "It's a Nigerian name. I lived there before they started relocating us to the continent."

"Zyke," Kat's memory twigged. "You're the head of Grassy Knoll? I was sorry to hear what happened."

He shrugged. "Thanks, but it could've been far worse. Most of us made it out."

Gregory was about to say something, but Pyotr kicked him in the back of the leg. This uncharacteristic display of impatient violence left the Aegis leader speechless.

Zyke made a few quick fire introductions as Kat lead them to the upper level. "This is Zosia, Nuri, Charlie, Ruth, Struer, Yuza, Quarir and Gregory. Pyotr, I think, you already know."

There was a chorus of vague "hi"s.

"This woman," Zyke introduced her, oblivious to her discomfort over the compliments, "was responsible for the discovery of the Antlion's pheromone sacs. She revolutionised the way we travelled the coast-"

"The Vorts were fully aware of the pheropod system," Worborne snorted, somewhat nonplussed that the introductions had skipped him. "I don't see why she should take any credit."

"Regrettably, in ages gone by we were segregated and unable to share our knowledge effectively," Sam interrupted. "Katya Orovjek's research undid the divides, meaning that when we had the chance to coexist we possessed a mutual fact base."

"That," Nalore translated, "means shut up."

* * *

"You collapsed the Stone Well tunnel?"

Kat nodded. "Yes, it was the only way to stop—"

"I did not authorise that! Now the residents of Stone Well are stranded!"

"The residents of Stone Well," Zyke explained tiredly, "are currently zombified freaks. The Combine have flattened the place with mortars."

"And who are you to interrupt me?" The man whirled on Zyke, who stood his ground. Dasther wasn't particularly large, but he was vehement and twitchy. An angry, angry person, all bagged eyes and unkempt hair.

"I'm Zichekoam, the head of the Grassy Knoll cell. And so if you want to buy into this 'rank' thing, then I've every right to interrupt you, especially when you're talking absolute shit. And you are?"

"Julian Dasther." The man remembered himself, "This is  _my_  base.  _This_  base hasn't been destroyed because of sheer negligence! When here you'll obey my rules, and you will not ruin perfectly serviceable escape routes."

"Stone Well was devastated… and there was a squadron of Elites chasing our newest arrivals. Collapsing the tunnel was our only option," Kat said firmly. "There's no point arguing about it."

"You can not tell me what to do!"

"Actually, Dasther, I rather think I can and should." Kat returned his frown. "This hierarchy you take so much pride in is inspired by the military but I'm not a military woman. I'm part of the science team. You know, the core group essential to our efforts? Contains the likes of Dr Vance and Dr Kleiner? I don't answer to you. If I deem something necessary,  _then it is necessary._  And that's the end of the matter."

Dasther gave them a venomous look, and he had venom enough for them all, before slinking off.

Zyke was impressed. "Are you really his superior?"

"Yes and no. Dasther is near-delusional. The only person he doesn't scream at is Barney. I suppose I am more scientific than military, but I certainly don't hold as much sway as someone like Dr Kleiner."

Nalore watched the retreating figure cautiously. Dasther really gave the impression that he could spin round and go for their throats at any given moment. "Not a nice guy. Is he really in charge of the base?"

"No, Calhoun is the closest thing to a leader here. Vanguard is just a big resupply base we can all use when necessary. A safe spot in this hellish warzone we've brought on." Kat pushed aside a rusting door.

Nuri followed after her. "You don't sound like you approve."

"Well?" Kat matched her gaze. "Do you? It's meant to be an uprising, but we have people looting storehouses and then just going home. The other day we had civilians steal one of our ration crates. We're going to be our own undoing unless  _everyone_  helps us."

"She's right," Zyke admitted, sounding as if he was apologising for the whole of the human race, "most of the outlying cities aren't interested in freeing Dr Vance. City 17 is the Combine's core settlement. When they can call on reinforcements across the board, well, it's simple."

Kat sighed and waved for them to be seated. "I believe we're doing the right thing, really I do, but if we're not  _all_  doing the right thing, then this is just an exercise in futility. Please, sit down."

The three gratefully accepted the folding chairs. They were somewhat incongruous furniture, as they were carefully arranged around a massive oak table. The briefing room itself was a many-windowed observation office, carefully positioned between the gantry ways so as to have the best possible view of what had once been a factory floor. Maps, pin-boards and easels were cluttered at every edge.

"We'll have to wait here," Kat continued, "I'd try and find Carns myself, but he gave express orders that no one should risk leaving the base unnecessarily." She smiled slightly. "I'm not averse to taking orders if they actually make good sense."

Quarir squinted. "Carns?"

"He's an actual soldier. Unlike Dasther," Kat made an expression of disapproval when she mentioned the man's name. "We rescued Carns from the local CP station: apparently he was due for processing. He joined us on the spot and it didn't take long for Barney to promote him. He's one of our best operatives, and since Calhoun's not with us right now he'll have to authorise your presence." Kat absently cleared away some documentation from the table. "Sam told me about where you've been. It sounds like you have quite the tale to tell."

Nalore stiffened, but Zyke seemed perfectly relaxed. "Most of it was just luck," Zyke told her, "and we're thankful for that. I'm just hoping it lasts for us."

 _What does she know?_  Quarir shrieked inwardly.  _What has Sam told her…?_

Sam hasn't told her anything,

Zyke chastised him,  _Pyotr informed me that the Vorts just gave her a generic tale of escape. Most of its true, they've just juggled with_ _ **why**_   _we've done what we've done._

Kat started talking again and Zyke withdrew. The severing of the telepathic link made Quarir suppress a shudder. He'd never get used to it. Not when it was a computer doing it, not when it was a friend doing it, never.

"Well, hopefully it'll brush off on us," she continued. "I'm sorry about splitting you up, but far more of you turned up than I had expected…"

Zyke waved a hand and told her it was fine. She'd led them to the dormitory and politely requested that they all stayed there. The other residents had lapsed into silence, and they'd spent an agonising ten minutes being stared at.

Soon afterwards they were rescued by Kat's reappearance but she'd only wanted Zyke and two others. Zyke had selected Quarir and Nuri; Quarir because he was another Domarian— he wouldn't have invited Yuza for all the artefacts in Ucelsia— and Nuri because she was one of the only natives he trusted, and the most informed of them at that.

"I don't want to sound prying, but we really need a little background. Nothing too detailed. Just enough to know about where we'd be best assigning you." Kat produced a pencil, and for a moment she looked like a concentrating psychiatrist. "Experience, skills… that sort of thing."

Zyke shrugged. "I was just a labourer back in Nigeria. After the Resistance sprung me loose I grabbed a gun and just started fighting. I learned pretty quick."

Kat smiled but it was an odd smile, as if she knew something was not quite right. Zyke cursed himself for sounding too eager. "That's fine," she assured him, "but I was really wondering more about your friends. I'm sure they've had combat experience, but if they wanted I'm sure there are support positions open."

"Well, Zosia was a student who's become a damn good mechanic," Zyke hurried on to hide his inner turmoil, "and Gregory, Ruth and Struer were all drivers for the Aegis patrol- which died with Grassy Knoll, as I'm sure you know. They can all use a gun. I'm not sure about Worborne," he lied diplomatically, "as I haven't known him very long. And Quarir—"

"I can talk, thanks," Nalore reminded him. "I'm just a run-of-the-mill citizen. Like Zyke I got caught up in things, but I'm pretty handy in a tight spot."

Nuri nodded. "Yes, I bumped into him back at City 11. The CPs arrested us and we managed to escape the demolition. Things have just unfolded from there."

Kat nodded herself, although she made no effort to write any of it down. "I see you've all brought your own equipment and reinforcements are always welcome. I'm positive Vanguard will do far better with you. But if you ever feel you need to have a less active position, then..."

"Hey, what's with this?" Nalore's eyebrow twitched shiftily. "You trying to put us off joining for some reason?"

"Not exactly," Kat licked her lips. "I  _was_  hoping one of you would be a doctor as we have a shortage of medics here but mostly I just want to make one thing clear: if you're on the frontline, it won't be easy. If you're on one of our excursions, it'll be even harder. People like Dasther would have me act like a recruitment officer, grabbing everyone I can and keeping them in the dark, but I think people need to know the risks… the Combine are—"

"Thanks, but we know the risks," said Quarir.

"I know," Kat smiled. This time it looked genuine.

There was a rapping on the door, and then a Vortigaunt head was thrust inside. "The officers are requesting a meeting in the dormitory," said Sam, "We are to inform you of these proceedings." The 'Gaunt turned directly to Zyke. "Zichekoam, your presence is particularly desired."

Zyke nodded and left the room hurriedly- almost as if, Quarir thought, he knew what they wanted him for. Nuri glanced at Kat once, as if she too wondered how much the woman suspected, then went out.

Kat looked across the table at Quarir, and suddenly the Domarian felt very exposed. "Quarir Nalore, isn't that your name?"

"Yeah," Quarir replied cautiously, noisily scraping his chair backward.

"That's an Arabic name, isn't it?"

"Uh," Quarir paused for a century and a half, "yeah…?"

"Hmm." Kat escorted him outside.


	29. Chapter 29

**The Push**

Quarir wasn't sure what he'd expected. On the one hand this was a combat situation, but on the other it was a combat situation on a different planet and between cultures remarkably different to any he'd encountered before. So he wasn't entirely surprised to see that the "meeting" appeared to consist of rows of officers shouting at each other from the gantry ways and demanding reports from their subordinates on the factory floor.

Nalore felt more than a little uncomfortable. He was on one of the higher catwalks, and a hundred men, women and Vortigaunts milled around beneath them.

Beside him, Zyke calmly corrected one of the resident Vanguard leaders.

"No," the Rot was saying, "Grassy Knoll was eliminated by Gunships with Dropship support. At no point did they use mortars, any reports you heard must have been inspired by misidentified Hunter Seeker rockets."

"They're using a lot less choppers nowadays," someone else mused from across the way.

"That's because we're blowing them up," someone responded. "But they seem to have a limitless supply of Gunships: we still don't know for sure whether they're being manufactured, portalled in or both."

Kat genteelly tapped Zyke's shoulder, and pointed to the current speaker. "That's Carns. He must have got back recently."

"Carns set this gathering in motion," Sam elaborated, nodding knowingly.

Losing interest in the rebels' self-congratulatory talk of rotorcraft downing, Quarir sidled up to Nuri, trying to put as much distance between himself and Kat as possible.

"Do I look Arabic?" he hissed.

Nuri, who had been slumped across the railings, sleepily counting the massed Resistance members, was shocked. "What?"

"Do I look Arabic?" Quarir repeated insistently.

Kat paused and examined Quarir critically. Eventually she said: "I guess?"

"Kat asked me if Quarir Nalore was an Arabic name but either way I think I hesitated too damn long before answering," Quarir ground his teeth. "I think she might be on to us."

"The Quarir Nalore would be best served if he ceased his worrisome musing," Sam informed him, appearing behind the pair with sudden, startling stealth. "The discussion has turned to more contemporary matters."

Nalore guiltily returned to his position beside Zyke, and went back to watching the debate.

"That cinches it," said yet another rebel who no one had bothered introducing them to, "the Combine are advancing. They're bringing heavy mortar support to City 17, as we always suspected."

"It's not a certainty," said another, "they've kept to attrition thus far, sticking to aerial craft."

"Not for long," Carns made an emphatic slashing motion, like the offspring of an angry politician and a butcher. "We know they've been targeting City 9 but now that 9 is just scorched earth, they're moving the Mortar Synth platoons back our way. They've cleaned up our neighbours, and now the Combine must have decided that they're going to have to sacrifice a few buildings to stop us. Stone Well was just the beginning."

There was a lot of dramatic muttering. Quarir felt that this was, in fact, a good sign. Carns had their attention.

"Well?" said a perpetually livid voice that Nalore recognised as Dasther's, "this uprising is down to Calhoun and you supported him! If we're going to be crushed by massed Synth, then it's your fault!"

"This isn't an uprising!" Zyke bellowed, "This is just an assault, less than a quarter of the population is on the move! Together we'd outnumber the Combine and flatten the bastards, but like this we'll always be on the defensive."

"What the populace needs is an example," said a woman with a soft, lilting voice. Judging by her arm band, she was one of the medics that Kat was seeking so urgently. "If they feel there's nothing to fight for…."

"Freeman vanished," Dasther snarled at her, "he's no good to us. He pops up and Vance gets captured. Coincidence? I think not!"

"That was because of Mossman's treachery, and we know it was her and her alone," Carns snapped. "If it wasn't for Freeman taking out the Nova Prospekt garrison, we'd be swamped with troops. But I don't think Amina was referring to Freeman. I think she has made a very sound point."

"You think we should lead by example? We've done plenty," someone said defensively.

"He's not questioning our past actions," a large man interrupted, but he gave Carns a look that implied he'd be immensely displeased if he  _was_  trying to cast aspersions on their achievements. "We've done all we can."

"Even though he and Calhoun seem to chase after supply caches instead of solid objectives."

"But we need to consider what  _needs_  doing," Carns pointedly ignored Dasther's sniping. "We're going to have to evacuate. The moment the Synth are in position, Vanguard will crumble under a hundred mortars. Doctor Werner?"

The big rebel nodded. Nalore certainly would've have guessed the bear-like man was a doctor. "It's safe to assume that we won't be facing a lone Synth," he said with a strong accent that Quarir had no hope of pinpointing, "in all their other deployments, the Combine have crushed Resistance cells with every force at their disposal. If they send Mortar Synths, they'll send enough to level the whole of Vanguard. That's a fact."

"And it's nothing new," said the strangely defensive woman, "it's logical that we'd evacuate if the Synth are on the warpath."

"Yeah, but the Combine expect us to be in here, oblivious to what's coming," Carns told her. "They underestimate the Vort network."

"We do our best," Sam nodded, and Kat nudged the 'Gaunt playfully.

"Well, how does that help anything?" An increasingly agitated, elderly rebel was clearly tiring of the proceedings.

There was a keening in the air. The distinctive drone of a Gunship. To Quarir's abject astonishment, the massed rebels looked up, noted the absence of cries for reinforcements, and then went back to their meeting, talking over the gunfire.

"Isn't it obvious?" Carns swung his arms out expressively, "This'll be a perfect counter attack. The Mortar Synths are trudging towards us, and we ambush them, take them by surprise, and cripple them. If that's not inspirational, I don't know what is!"

There were two rockets fired in quick succession, and the mournful wailing of a flying Synth, but they were interspersed with much in the way of predictable gasps and sneering contempt.

"No one's ever killed a Mortar Synth before," said the woman Nalore had started to think of as Mrs Cynical.

"No one's ever tried!" Zyke shouted so loudly that he even outdid a third rocket.

"That'll be because it's impossible," Dasther croaked, "they're huge and they're always well-defended."

"Like Striders?" Carns grinned triumphantly. "People said they were indestructible, but we've taken them out before."

Several dozen pairs of eyes, including the more prominent speakers, turned toward Quarir and the group, and then turned away, talking among themselves. Quarir caught choice snippets like "that's true" and "definitely a precedent, then".

Nalore shivered under the attention, and leant closer to Zyke. "What was that about?"

"If you believe the rumours," the Rot began conspiratorially, "Katya took down a Strider single handed."

" _What?"_

"Oh, she had help, but they just distracted the Strider. It's said that she ran up, placed a grenade right on its leg joint… and it collapsed under its own weight."

Quarir leaned further forward, to spy Kat further along the gantry. She was actually starting to blush from all the implied attention and then Quarir guiltily realised that she'd probably overheard and he'd contributed to it. She definitely struck him as the reluctant hero type.

" _Reluctant heroes are a valuable commodity,"_ a voice interjected suddenly. " _You would be amazed by what they are capable of._ "

"Maintonon?!"

" _You thought I had severed contact because you are foolishly acting without my instruction or authorisation? I was hoping that you had begun to learn."_

"What do you want?" Quarir hated forming sentences in his mind. It felt unnatural to him in even the most banal circumstances so he was edging away from the group and whispering to the mental intruder that he alone could hear.

" _Very little. I merely wanted to wish you good luck, Nalore. Be careful, you are needed."_

"Good luck with what?"

" _The suicide mission Zichekoam just volunteered you all for."_  Maintonon's presence retreated.

Quarir's head snapped back up. People were saying stupidly valiant things along the lines of "count me in" and socialist mantras about the needs of the many and Quarir recalled the dialogue he'd heard almost subconsciously. A rousing speech from Carns, which included words like "danger" and "Mortar Synth"…

Zyke recognised his expression. "You wanted to make a difference," he said simply. "Besides, we're made of far tougher things than these people."

"Some of us are," Nuri chided him.

"I didn't volunteer you!"

"Well, you should've. I'm coming with you."

"Uh," said Quarir.

"As am I," said Pyotr, appearing from nowhere, "I can tell that Quarir Nalore will require some spiritual guidance."

"Oh, hell," said Quarir.

"Or sedatives," Zyke amended, "it'll help a lot if you've got some sedatives."

Above them all, the defenders struck the Gunship out of the sky. The Synth's mournful death cry dwindled away until it crashed to the ground.

* * *

Vanguard's armoury was quite massive. Everyone who joined had to hand over their own supplies, putting them towards the war effort.

Zyke's haggard refugees had gladly complied and this had gone down well with the quartermasters. Seeing the influx of pulse rifles and ammunition, they'd failed to spot Yuza's Sentinel pistol and the Mercenary-issue plasma rifle, which the group had carefully secreted.

It all seemed quite pointless to Quarir, as from what he could tell they'd be led back there, outfitted, and then sent on their way.

But for now they ate in the crowded mess hall. It was an odd mix: Combine ration packs and vegetables and canned goods gleaned from those few Resistance cells that had access to farm plots or secret caches.

Quarir helped himself to a little of everything, noting just how much the ration packs tasted like Domarian nutricubes (that is, no taste at all).. The table was currently a mess of empty plastic packaging and dirty plates but for once it wasn't due to his eating habits alone, as several others were with him.

Yuza made a face, and not because of her food. "So you're going to accompany the expedition to take out the Mortar Synths?"

"Yep," Zyke said simply, helping himself to more raw carrot.

"I was talking to Quarir," Yuza said flatly.

"And I was talking  _about_  Quarir," Zyke responded calmly.

Yuza ignored the Rot, and stared at Nalore intently. "Well?"

"I'm going," said Quarir, temporarily lowering a very stale sandwich.

"And do you  _want_  to go?"

"Well, I don't like the idea of risking my life, but it's about time I did something heroic, I think."

"I wouldn't make a joke of this. This is a very serious situation."

"And that's why I'm going. Leave it already. It's my life to screw with, you know." He took a large bite of the wedge of bread and chewed it, indicating that the conversation was over.

Yuza looked to Nuri for support. "What about you? You're going with them?"

"Of course," came the steady reply, "I've got nothing to lose. If we all shared your attitude, we'd never get anywhere."

Yuza sighed and shook her head.

"I take it you disapprove?" Kat asked gently. "Dare I ask why?"

There was a long pause. They knew that Yuza, as an Enforcer, opposed anything that went against Maintonon's instructions. But Kat didn't know of their transdimensional origins. Although it seemed to Quarir that she'd been asking carefully probing questions recently.

"I just don't think it's an easy assignment," Yuza began cautiously, "and I don't think they'll cope well. They're not military sorts."

"Yes we are," said Zyke brightly, knowing that Yuza couldn't correct him. Although he'd never been a soldier, Zichekoam was much more capable than a mere human.

Sam and Pyotr, who had been consuming about twenty pounds of mushrooms with every sign of enjoyment, finally stop eating.

"They are very competent," said Sam.

"Indeed," agreed Pyotr, "we can think of no reason why they should not aid the push with Carns."

The Vortigaunts went back to demolishing the pile of fungus, oblivious to Yuza's dirty looks.

"I think it'll work," Charlie said brightly. "I mean, we've taken Striders down before. Not us personally, sure, but it's been done."

"A Mortar Synth is  _not_  a Strider," Yuza snapped. "No one has had any real experience with them."

"Oh, I'm afraid I'll have to correct you there," Kat interrupted.

"What?"

"Although I'm more suited to studying the behavioural traits of Xenian wildlife, I have, more recently, been asked to examine the nature of Synth. My room is packed with their remnants: their exoskeletons do not appear to rot or erode and from what I have learnt, a Mortar Synth probably has marginally less carapace than a Strider."

Yuza frowned again. "Since when have you killed a Mortar Synth?"

"We haven't," Kat explained. "Once, a group of Antlion Guards mobbed a platoon of them. One Synth was taken down, and we stole its remains, wondering if we could learn something about them. All their innards seem to break down very rapidly, but we have a lot of knowledge regarding their possible weak points."

"The operative word being  _possible,"_  Gregory scoffed. "There's no certainty. You're wasting your time."

Quarir glared at the man. Despite the fact the rest of Aegis was mingling with the Vanguard residents quite happily, Gregory seemed to insist on following them around. He could see that Yuza was agitated. Ultimately she didn't question the push so much as Zyke's reasons for supporting it, and she wasn't happy about finding herself on the same side as someone like Gregory.

"Nothing's certain," said Charlie, "so we might as well try."

Gregory snorted, and went back to his salad. Quarir privately hoped that he'd choke on one of the tomatoes.

The meal went on, and they talked of more mundane things for a while. Eventually Charlie wandered off and Gregory went back to his squad. Kat, too, made her farewells and left with Sam in tow.

"That woman knows something," Nuri said quietly.

"Everyone's suspicious," Zyke shrugged, "I don't blame them."

"I suppose," Yuza sighed suddenly, "that there's something I should mention, if you've decided to stick to this course of action."

"What's that?" Nuri asked, deliberately seeking to beat Zyke to the response.

"I have… talked at length with Pyotr," Yuza responded, sounding somewhat restrained. "He mentioned that my metabolism has been altered by the headcrab. Perhaps permanently."

"Uh," Nalore edged away from her, "you're not going to turn into some sort of zombie, are you?"

"No," Yuza continued, "the point I was trying to make was that Pyotr now thinks that the headcrabs will pay no attention to me, that they will not consider me a viable host. The mutagen changed something… on a genetic level."

"As humans such as Katya Orovjek found," Pyotr began, "headcrabs stalk their prey by 'tasting' the air around them. Because of her most mysterious implants and the neurochemical administrations of the parasite, we do not think that headcrabs will be able to detect the Yuza."

"What are you planning?" Nuri asked suspiciously.

"Apparently this Barney Calhoun person has been planning a separate push for quite some time and there is a shortcut involved, through the tunnels. After all the mortars, they are thought to be filled with zombies." Yuza sighed. "I've had instructions which are a little confusing, but I think I'm expected to help Calhoun."

"Maintonon contacted you?" Zyke blurted out.

"That is one way of putting it, yes."

"What's that bastard got planned now?"

"I really don't know."

"And you don't care, do you?" Zyke shook his head. "You Enforcers lap up his mysterious contingency bullshit. You eat it up by the ton. You think we should be left in the dark and fed shit, like Pyotr's mushrooms."

"Yuza has just agreed to help us all," Nuri chided him, "you could be a bit more supportive."

"And these fungi were not produced with offal," Pyotr added.

"She's not doing it because she thinks it's right. She's doing it solely because some damn computer told her to. She's a joke."

Yuza's expression bypassed a frown in favour of homicidal anger. "Don't push me, Rot."

"Oh, I've pushed you as far as I'll bother to push you. I'm glad you're doing the right thing, for all the wrong reasons." With that, Zyke left the table. Yuza, sighing forlornly, got up and went in the opposite direction.

"I hate all this political crap," Quarir moaned. "It was easier when it was just us and the Arcs. Now we've got the Combine and all our own little splits. This is driving me nuts."

"You are likely to be taken closer to nuthood then, Quarir Nalore." Pyotr stood up. "We are now to lead you to the Vanguard basement. Strange things are afoot, and we must observe before departing. These are the instructions of Barney Calhoun."


	30. Chapter 30

**Combine Convoy**

"City 13," Barney said levelly, "has fallen."

Quarir didn't have the remotest idea what that meant, but from Nuri's sharp intake of breath he guessed it wasn't good.

"But they were doing so well," Zichekoam spluttered. "Their reports are always talking about their victories!"

"Their reports must have been misleading." Calhoun shook his head. "They were fighting back but we got to face facts, they exaggerated their success. The Combine have flattened them with Synth so now we got two problems."

"The blow to morale and the freed-up Combine forces," Nuri sighed.

"Exactly." Calhoun nodded. "With 13 out of the way, they'll throw everything they can at us."

"And considering this has gone on for so long, they won't worry about collateral," Zyke rubbed his chin.

Most of this was lost on Quarir but he'd gathered that, once upon a time, City 13 had been a garrison town home to plentiful military installations and equally numerous soldiers. The vast majority had been executed, relocated or recruited by the ever-hungry Civil Protectorate but many had managed to stay, forming a sleeper cell which hoarded weapons and ammunition.

They had infiltrated their town's token Overwatch base to the extent that several officers were active rebels rather than mere sympathisers: and when their small Synth contingent had left, they had risen up, defeating the loyalist CPs with ease, turning City 13 into one gigantic Resistance base.

But as time went on more and more uprisings were quashed, and more and more troops were sent to City 13. Eventually, the bulk of the Combine force had arrived and wiped the City off the face of the Earth. And City 17, it was widely felt, would be next.

Calhoun, Quarir had decided, was a good man. Like the short-lived heroes of City 13, he had permeated the Protectorate and fought it from within: he wore a Metrocop uniform and always had a pulse rifle in his hand. He certainly looked and acted like a leader of men and from what he could tell, Quarir fancied that he was second only to Gordon Freeman in the Resistance's eyes.

But that meant little nowadays. Many were questioning Freeman's commitment and even his loyalties; following the suspicious assault upon Black Mesa East and the man's strange disappearance, some were ladling the blame directly onto their former figurehead. Even after the treachery of a high-ranking Resistance member was revealed, some had made Freeman the scapegoat; feeling that his achievements were utterly nullified by his decision to abandon them, many had gone from being his strongest supporters to his harshest denouncers.

Barney Calhoun, however, always maintained that Freeman would come back. Barney, after all, had survived the Black Mesa incident:  _the_  Black Mesa, Zyke had explained, as in the research facility whose scientists had unintentionally set a resonance cascade in motion, bringing Earth and Xen into collision and ultimately revealing both their presences to the Combine. If anyone was qualified to comment, many were saying, it was Barney Calhoun. And so they followed him.

"But it's not all bad news," Calhoun continued. "Since Gordon took down Nova Prospekt, half the inmates managed to escape."

"That was with the power outages the prototype teleporter caused," Zyke recited the Vortigaunt intelligence from memory. "Currently they're a good-sized force that has liberated the remaining prisoners and is taking on the Forts one at a time."

"So we've got reinforcements of our own coming?" Quarir finally ventured. He'd lost the thread more often than a drunk sewing enthusiast.

Calhoun made a gesture to indicate that this wasn't entirely good news. "Yeah, but infantry are no match for Synth. That's why I keep leading these forays for supplies. We need grenades and rockets and any other explosives to penetrate their shells. Kat keeps talking about structural linkages and crap but I  _know_  they're tough as hell. If civilians turn up with submachine guns trying to act like an army, they'll be slaughtered."

Nuri gestured at the scrawled poster that was one of the basement's many tactical maps. "But you think that if we give them RPGs and show them how to point them, they'll be able to take the Synth on?"

"Exactly," Calhoun said again, clearly pleased that his aims were apparent. "If we raid the CP armouries, we weaken them and strengthen ourselves. If we can have a nice load of equipment ready for these guys, we'll be able to get even with those Combine bastards."

"And we attack the Mortar Synths as a diversion?" Nuri persisted, not sure she was certain of (or happy with) Calhoun's scheme.

"I guess so, but that's not the main reason," Calhoun corrected her. "Carns and his volunteers, that's you guys, are attacking the Synth to stop them crushing Vanguard before we can evacuate. But we'll conduct as many raids as we can to try and spread the Combine thin. We need to cripple the unit that brought down Stone Well before the ones from City 13 can reinforce them. I've already sent Yuza to clear the way."

Zyke grimaced. " _What?"_

"You know Worborne? Worked at Black Mesa? Head of the biochemistry department?"

"What about him?"

"He said he wants to make amends. The Vortigaunts were saying how he used Katya's research to create a headcrab repellent. They're almost certain this chemical of his will stop the headhumpers trying anything funny, and maybe even the zombies will keep back." Calhoun grinned at the idea. "They soaked Yuza with it, and Lamarr ignored her."

Zyke knew Quarir was about to ask who Lamarr was, so he hit him surreptitiously to keep him quiet.

"So now Yuza's going to head to the Overwatch perimeter and try to raid the compound. The Combine doesn't bother guarding the old subway that heavily because it's packed with as many zombies as Ravenholm. And since she used to be a Pathfinder in the US Military, I'm sure it'll go to plan."

 _Worborne's trying to make amends all right,_  Zyke projected, and even now Quarir winced slightly at the unexpected telepathic visit.  _But not how Calhoun thinks: he's covering up for Yuza with huge lies. She must have threatened to shoot him._

Calhoun continued, as he was of course incapable of hearing the psionic exchange. "The plan is for us to have broken the Combine advance, grabbed a ton of supplies, and breached the Nexus compound in time for the Prospectors to join us."

This time Quarir managed to outspeed Zyke's fist and get a question out. "Prospectors?"

"What we call the escapees," the Rot informed him irritably.

"Well, good," Nuri said slowly.

"Yes," Zyke agreed, "it's a damn good plan and I'm sure it'll work."  _Even with that computer-worshipping Enforcer swanning about,_  he shared with Quarir mentally. "But why meet us down here, in private?"

Calhoun walked to the other end of the basement and dramatically pulled back an improvised paper drape.

"We might have good recon thanks to the Vorts," the former security guard explained, "but there are things that confuse us. We've got strange signals all over the place, it's driving our scanners mad. And there's talk of some madman in a car, driving around and killing people randomly. It's made the Combine jumpy. They're acting faster than we thought."

"And you're telling us because…?" Quarir left the question hanging in the air and he was unprepared for the way in which Calhoun snatched at it.

"Because, tonight, before I tell the group I'm back and before things get any worse… you're going to go with Carns and ambush the Synth. They're already here."

* * *

Dawn came quite abruptly, at least in Nalore's eyes, but its progression was so sluggish that he was still at a loss to determine the exact time. "Way too early," was the best he could manage.

Irregular meals and intermittent sleep aboard rickety vehicles had not only upset his internal clock, they'd stolen the winding key and flattened the whole thing with a sledgehammer. Quarir was sure his augmentations were the only thing that had stopped him dying of exhaustion.

Although Nuri, always stubbornly resisting logic, was still alive. He was quite glad of that.

For now it was still dark and Nuri leant round the corner and scanned the alleyway. "Looks clear to me."

Carns nodded. "Right. Wedler, Rebus, you're with me. Zyke, take your lot round the other side."

"Got it." Zyke carefully edged his way through the magnetically-sealed trash units. But, totally negating the Rot's stealth, Quarir kept blundering into the garbage in the twilight, and Zyke was sure it wouldn't be long until someone heard them.

Quarir watched Carns's squad travel in the opposite direction, circumventing most of the residential block. Carns and… what's-his-face and what's-her-name were armed to the teeth and reeked of competence, as Pyotr might put it, even if Quarir had already forgotten who they actually were.

"So why's it just us four?" Nalore whispered out of the corner of his mouth. It came out far louder than he'd intended, and he winced under Zyke's glare.

"Because we've got the best chance of survival," Zyke said flatly. "You, me, and Pyotr are abnormally tough."

"Or perhaps just abnormal," The Vortigaunt chirped, indulging in a rare moment of jest.

"And we've got a plasma rifle and a revolver that never seems to run out."

Quarir frowned. That made sense, but it sounded like a shoddy fantasy-theme simulation to him.  _Congratulations, you've defeated the Wizard of Snot and you now have an Unlimited Combustion Pistol +2…_ You needed more than fancy hardware, both in weaponry and in internal workings, to overcome the odds they were facing.

"What I actually meant," he continued, "is why there were a lot of volunteers, but only we were sent out?"

"Because, like I said, we've got the best chance of survival. Remember,  _Charlie_  was one of the volunteers." He looked over his shoulder: the other team had disappeared. "But I don't think it's just that. I think Carns and Calhoun suspect something," he continued in a lower voice, "they seem very quiet."

"We have had to be alert at all times," Pyotr intoned. "Traitors are an ever-present threat. Once we had great wariness of mankind's efforts, but we have learnt to trust them, accepting the differences between your individuals." The 'Gaunt bowed his head profoundly. "We alone can decide our fate, no matter how tries to shape it."

Again, Pyotr had made a speech that would've been pretentious and unnecessarily vague in the mouth of a human but felt… right, from those of a Vortigaunt. As if their species had  _earned_  the right to be mysterious.

"I suppose that's just it," Nuri sighed. "Choice versus destiny. Good versus evil."

"Yes, but evil never sees itself as evil," Zyke said flatly, stepping over a particularly large and malodorous trash container. "That's why it's evil."

"'Cept the chaos factions and the death cults," Quarir interjected, recalling a few of the Domarian Legion's darker hours.

Zyke paused. "Yeah, them I guess."

"And the Sect of Pain, they definitely knew they were evil—"

"I get it, Quarir."

They rounded the corner and, already there at the other end of the apartment block, Carns made a complicated gesture and vanished from view.

"It's clear at their end," said Zyke. "Let's get inside and find that rocket crate."

Zyke, as the largest and strongest of them, was carrying two of Vanguard's cherished RPGs. Quarir had eventually realised that this meant they were rocket propelled grenade launchers, rather than one of the role-playing games he'd played religiously back at Ucelsia's simulation arcades.

They seemed quite high-tech, considering Earth's usual standards. Zyke had explained about their targeting systems, laser sights that allowed the explosive projectiles to track even the most manoeuvrable of foes. Carns was certain that this accuracy would allow them to hit a Mortar Synth's purported weak point.

And so there was a stash of at least thirty rockets secreted in this condemned apartment block, one of the many prepared for this kind of situation. The Combine had taken to manufacturing the rockets themselves: originally they'd only used Earth's technology for efficiency's sake, equipping their infantry with existing weapons simply because they were plentiful, but they seemed to have developed a taste for that particular variety of mankind's munitions.

Quarir didn't know if the Combine had ever used such missiles before Earth. From what he'd heard, they'd always stuck faithfully to pulse weapon variants and their infamous distortion cannons: but the Hunter-Seeker rotorcraft, themselves inspired by Earth's helicopters, were covered in rocket launchers. The Protectorate, too, were starting to come equipped with smaller, handheld projection systems and so their armouries always contained ample stock, ripe for theft.

The door was blocked by rubble, another remnant of some past conflict, so they clambered through a broken window. The room beyond looked devastated to Quarir, but Zyke, again recognising that all-too familiar expression of abject disbelief assured Nalore that the upper floors were still quite accessible.

"We're glad they attacked this place really," Zyke said, pushing aside a loose chunk of concrete to demonstrate his point. "The Custer's Avenue base is so unstable that the Combine would never think we'd still use it."

"Lovely," Quarir said weakly, noting how the whole place seemed to sag when the Rot moved the wreckage.

But he'd concede that this was the right place. There was the famous Lambda symbol on the wall, and the building matched their briefing description.

After squeezing through rough-walled gaps and clambering over unsteady heaps of rubble they reached the vantage point Zyke had alluded to.

The upper floor had been destroyed by the past battle, so strictly speaking they were standing on the second-highest floor. Quarir felt quite exposed without the roof but there were still chunks of wall dotting the place, making for decent cover should a firefight break out.

"Is that the street they'll head down?" Nuri pointed to the wide road below them.

"Yeah," Zyke nodded, "it's the only place they'll fit. There'll be a lot of them but all we need to do is take down one, to get their attention. After that we can fall back, repeat the process, and that should buy Vanguard enough time to evacuate everyone."

Zyke walked over to a jutting concrete peak that looked no different to any other, but he heaved a slab away effortlessly, revealing a green ammunition crate. Ever suspicious, he opened it, but seeing that it was filled with carefully stacked rockets he relaxed.

"Thing is," Quarir licked his lips, "moving such a big group of people is a problem either way, right? Once a crowd that size starts—"

Zyke closed the crate, gently gripped Nalore's shoulder and turned him around so that they were facing a crack to their right. On street level three-dozen Resistance members were visible, hurriedly moving in the direction Carns had gone.

"You didn't really think it'd just be left to us, did you?" Zyke grinned. "Carns and co. were just scouts. They'll flank the Synth, kill the guards, and make them think we've got a big Resistance cell right here. Mortar Synth can't fire at such close range. They can keep them busy for  _hours_."

Nuri smiled, both at the prospect of success and Quarir's revelatory expression. "It's certainly been well orchestrated," she said.

Pyotr nodded. "Vanguard has intercepted radio chatter and we have confirmed the plans. The Combine has had Vanguard's destruction scheduled for two days: they anticipated the end of the campaign at City 13 and allocated Synth accordingly."

"I suppose even genocide needs forward planning," Zyke muttered humourlessly.

They settled down and waited.

* * *

As Calhoun had said, the Synth were already on the move. They appeared within ten minutes, lazily lumbering through the double-lane of the road and crushing flame-gutted cars under their pointed feet. There was an APC at the fore of the convoy... but only three Mortar Synth.

"We'd expected more," Zyke rubbed his chin. "It's not like the Combine to underestimate us… not since Freeman turned up." He flipped the ammo crate open and carefully loaded one of the rockets into his RPG, steadying it on his shoulder. Nuri did likewise, taking careful aim.

There was a gunshot: the prescribed signal. It was time to act.

They pulled the triggers.

But the rockets didn't scream forward, trailing smoke. They leapt out with a pair of lacklustre pops and hit the ground several metres ahead of the lead Synth. They crumpled like tinfoil, and the APC ran over them with no ill effects.

"They're duds!" Zyke bellowed. "It's a trap! Get d—"

A mortar hit home. The floor cracked and they were thrown forward, pelted with shards of concrete and the useless rocket casings.

"What's going on?" Quarir panted. Gunshots split the air to the accompaniment of shouts.

"It's a damn trap," Zyke snarled, "that's what! Custer's Avenue can't be a real cell… they're an invention! We came here to use ammo planted by a fake base!"

Nuri's mouth gaped open. "But the radio… and the Lambda..."

"Anyone can use a radio or spray a damn mark on a wall! We need to get out of—"

Another mortar came, but it was mercifully inaccurate. The neighbouring rooftop exploded into dust and ceramic tiles.

"The other Synth are undoubtedly advancing through the west to avoid our ambush," Pyotr said calmly.

"And they'll take shots at us whenever they can," Zyke rumbled. "They'll take Vanguard whatever we do.  _They_  were trying to spread  _us_  thin! We took the bait. We have to get back!"

* * *

"They're just Elites," Carns said levelly, "we've taken them before! We'll make it!" He steadied his Kalashnikov. "We  _will_  make it!"

Wedler died then, and Harrison, and others he couldn't recognise. They withered in a hail of pulse fire, and a Dark Energy sphere whistled over Carns's head and claimed two lives in a burst of ineffable particles.

But the Elites were outnumbered. The first wave was gunned down by the rebels' massed firepower as the group fell back through the maze of alleys. The remainder…

…didn't follow. They were pulling away. And Elites never retreated. They knew no fear…

Carns had been leading his group towards the main road. Mortar Synth, after all, lacked short-ranged weaponry and would thus be preferable to Elites. The surrounding buildings crumbled under mortar impact, but Carns felt his heart sang as they reached the alleyway's end and emerged into the street.

A firebombed car blocked their path. And standing atop of it was the tallest Elite they'd ever seen.

Eye glowing like a furnace, Forty levelled his pulse cannon and let loose two barrels of hell.


	31. Chapter 31

**Sacrifice**

Bruised, stained with blood and dust from their mad flight to safety, the four rebels ran for their lives. They had to get back to Vanguard, to help in its defence, although they suspected that it was already too late.

Mortars still fell but Quarir wondered if they were being fired on the move, if that was even possible, simply due to their sheer inaccuracy. This residential sector was sparsely populated, but the Protectorate was showing no regard for collateral damage.

RPGs on their backs, assault rifles at the ready, they moved on. Quarir had removed the plasma rifle from his backpack. He was now at the stage where he frankly didn't care if anyone asked tough questions and he felt significantly safer with the shiny silver device in his hands.

"Tunnels," Zyke said, "head back to the tunnels."

"There's a danger of collapse," Nuri protested.

"Yeah? Well there's a danger of mortars-to-the-face if we don't get out of here soon. We need to reach the forces at Vanguard without bumping into any more Combine."

"We have been telling the Resistance at Vanguard to evacuate," Pyotr began, "but many are refusing. They feel that their 'best bet' is to remain and fight."

"But there are at least ten Mortar Synths on the move!" Quarir blustered.

"We have explained that, and still they remain. They do not believe how dire their situation is. Many rejected Barney Calhoun's order."

"Well the many are idiots," Zyke snapped. "Our only hope is to get the hell out of Vanguard before it's too late."

"But what can we do?" Nalore winced when he realised how much he sounded like Dasther or Gregory. "We can't  _make_  them leave. Where do we go, even if we get back to Vanguard?"

"I never thought I'd say this," Zyke breathed, "but I think Yuza might be some help. She's an Enforcer, so she'll reach the Nexus okay. She's hard as nails. All she needs to do is take out one of the Overwatch relays, at least, according to Calhoun, and then people like him will know how to open the compound gates. Then we can take the fight back to the Combine."

"Barney Calhoun continues to lead his push to the Citadel," Pyotr interjected. "He has encountered mixed successes. He hoped that more rebels from Vanguard would follow him but to their shame, they have not been supportive."

"Typical, isn't it?" Nuri frowned. "The one chance we get, and it's the Resistance itself who screws it up. The Combine don't need to bother. We can beat ourselves well enough."

The left the street and they saw Vanguard. The huge bastion of the Resistance took a mortar hit as they watched but the concrete monolith barely cracked. What was of most interest was the encircled APCs, and the gunfight taking place on all levels. If they got caught in the crossfire…

"Here's a tunnel," Zyke said suddenly.

Quarir looked. "Uh, it's just a big pile of rocks."

"We can shift them. See this one?" Zyke patted a truly gigantic slab. "Help me move it."

"What? It'll weigh a ton!"

"C'mon, wuss!" Nuri said teasingly.

Quarir took up one end and heaved. His long-suffering bionics whined with the effort and coloured fireworks went off behind his eyes, but the slab rose slowly. With a final push, they sent it slamming onto a patch of clear ground.

"God damn," Quarir wheezed.

"I was taking most of the weight," Zyke grinned, and stepped down the subway's stairs. "We've still got time. Let's go help Calhoun."

* * *

"The Vorts have told you already, they're coming!" Zyke shouted from the gantries. "Can you picture that? Ten Mortar Synth, firing in volleys. Vanguard will be flattened!"

Someone piped up. "It can't be that bad out there if you got back."

"We took the tunnels! Half of you have left, why are the rest of you so dumb?"

Quarir saw a couple of people slink off, hopefully towards the ramp and the outside world.

A mortar hit, only the second in five minutes, and Vanguard barely rattled. "If that's the best they can do, we can take it!" someone sneered.

"We're talking ten of them!" Zyke roared. "Get that!  _Ten!_ "

The subway had been a picnic, just a long, empty tunnel that they traversed easily, although Zyke had to bulldoze his way through the collapsed exit. Their entrance had caused quite the stir, although they'd just lied and claimed it had been made through explosives, and that the man who said he saw Zichekoam lift a boulder with his bare hands was hallucinating.

"We can hold out perfectly here." Dasther had made himself apparent. He was standing on the catwalk parallel to Zyke's. "If we go outside, we'll face the CPs without cover."

"And if we stay inside, we'll face a constant rain of high explosives," Kat said steadily.

"You know, they've all got a point," Gregory voiced uncomfortably. "I saw what the Synth did to Stone Well…"

Kat nodded. "And they'll bring Striders in. We won't survive their distortion cannons."

"Right," Charlie shouted from the floor. Quarir couldn't help wondering why he was still here. At least he was agreeing with the right people…

"If you're so willing to die, I suggest you leave us be and go yourself," Dasther snapped.

"Oh, I intend to. Sam and I will depart within the next three minutes," Katya continued calmly. "I just hoped you'd all see sense, and that we could go together. I wanted to make one last effort to persuade you."

"As it is, we feel that our knowledge should be made available to all," Pyotr (or it could have been Sam) shouted. The two Vortigaunts were standing on the broken crane that dominated the factory floor.

"Indeed," said the other. "We swore not to interfere, but the consensus is thus: we are to mention that Dasther was the Resistance leader who instructed the residents of Ravenholm to remain where they were."

"He ordered them to stay, ignoring the reports of gathering Synth."

"Dasther is already responsible for a thousand severed ties. Do not make him responsible for more."

"We are leaving. We recommend that you do so. That is all, for now."

Pandemonium reigned.

* * *

Forty walked on.

Dropships and Gunships flew overhead in their droves. Scanners flew beneath them like fledglings. But Forty preferred to advance on foot. He had it on the highest authority that the Domarian was nearby… besides, it meant he could murder anything that got in his way. He had, for example, just slaughtered thirteen rebels in a very satisfactory bloodbath.

Freeman, he was told, would arrive soon. And this was his primary reason for walking. He did not question how his Benefactors knew this, only that it meant he could soon fulfil his purpose.

Freeman was everything.

* * *

"You've ruined everything," Dasther snarled. "You're sending them to their deaths!"

"Then at least it'll be their choice," Zyke said levelly. "I have a past myself, I shouldn't judge you, but I'll tell you this: you're an idiotic bastard. Now shut up and get out of here!"

He shoved him, and Dasther almost fell. The man shot Zyke a venomous glance, and moved away. But not towards the ramp.

Despite what he'd said, Pyotr was still in Vanguard, standing on the factory floor with the group. Katya and Sam had moved on, barely pausing to exchange greetings, and the place was emptying rapidly.

There was gunfire from outside. There would be casualties, but there were far more rebels than there were CPs. They would triumph.

"Well," said Gregory, who had sent his old Aegis friends ahead, "looks like the better argument won out." He paused, and then nodded, seating himself upon a toppled pillar. "Well done."

Zyke grinned. "We can congratulate one another once we get to Barney."

Three mortars hit, in quick succession. Vanguard shook, and a large shard of concrete clanged into the metal of a walkway.

"Looks like we've timed it alright," Quarir murmured.

"Ah, I wouldn't stress over it." For once, Gregory smiled. "What have we got to worry about?"

"Oh, plenty, I should think."

The Zealot dropped down from the gantry way and pulled Gregory's head from his shoulders.

Gregory's body tumbled to the ground, his skull tossed aside like a blood-trailing ball.

The Zealot straightened up. He was unmarked. His armour still shone, his robe was still a dark, unfaded red. He smiled.

"No way," Quarir despaired. "No goddamn w—"

He flew backwards over the broken pillar, propelled by a psionic bolt of intense strength.

"I wanted more from that," the Zealot said disappointedly, "not much of a fighter."

Another bolt arced forward and struck the assassin's chest. "Want more?" Zyke bellowed. His woollen glove exploded into glowing fibres, revealing the gauntlet, psychic energy dancing between his fingers. "Right here, right now, I'll take you—"

"That's mine," the Zealot said irritably, waving a hand.

Zyke's gauntlet exploded in a crackle of twisting energy, consuming him in blinding fire. He keeled over with a sigh, the charred remains of the booby-trapped amplifier bleeding sparks just as he bled his lifeblood.

"You left more than that behind!" Nuri snarled, incandescent with anger. She emptied the .357 at his head.

"Yes: that's also a part of me," the Arcadimaarian informed her smugly, unscathed.

And then she saw. The Zealot had caught the bullets—  _caught the bullets_ — in his gauntleted hand. He smiled, and clicked his fingers. The revolver he'd infused so long ago glowed white-hot. Nuri sank to her knees, gasping, but she couldn't drop it. Every nerve cell in her body screamed in agony, but she couldn't relinquish her grip.

"Pathetic," the Arcadimaarian sneered. "An alliance of backward, mindless primi—"

There was a thunderous sound, and the Zealot grunted in pain: Pyotr had discharged every ounce of his bioelectric being at the assassin. Green sparks poured off the Zealot's armour, small bolts of lightning dissipating from every metal plate, and he turned to the Vortigaunt, his face a mask of blind hatred.

The .357 fell from her hand, but it had been too much for Nuri. She passed out. Quarir, too, safe behind the fallen pillar and free of his would-be killer's slowly suffocating influence, groaned and groggily rose to his feet. Pyotr noted this and felt that he'd made a difference.

Nalore watched what happened next, and he'd never forget it. The conversation was all he could hear, despite the constant barrage of mortars.

"Your wordiness betrays your failures," the Vort said heavily. "You maintain a masquerade of competence when you are cripplingly reliant on outside influences. You indulge your own weaknesses yet belittle the strengths of others. We have seen great power in these civilisations, but we see only nihilism in yours. You are a non-being, unworthy of consciousness."

"And you are  _dead."_

Pyotr's body spun backwards, propelled by a scything arc of pure energy.

"Pyotr!" Quarir gasped. " _He killed Pyotr!"_

"So what?" Dasther sniffed, lingering beside the retreating masses. "You should be running, you idiot. There are hundreds of Vorts, and they're all the same—"

Without looking, Quarir drew his arm back and punched Dasther in the face. Not realising his own strength, he knocked the man out cold.

"We have to help them!" he cried out to the rest of the group, oblivious to the stunned rebel... but the squad were already moving away, aware of greater problems. The building was crumbling around them. "C'mon!" Quarir pleaded, "What are you all doing!?"

"We have to go," Charlie pulled at his shoulder urgently, "don't make them waste their lives."

_I'll be fine. Get Nuri out of here._

"What?" Nalore demanded, and Charlie said something, thinking he was being addressed, but Quarir didn't hear him.

 _I'll be fine. Do it!_  Zyke's voice echoed through his mind.

Quarir hopped over the barrier of concrete and grabbed Nuri, desperately trying to drag her to safety. "I can't leave you too. You won't be that heavy, I could—"

Zyke had stood up, but his posture was… different, somehow.

_The hell you can't! We don't need more than one stupid heroic gesture! Get them all to safety! The Combine's the real threat, not this bastard!_ _**Run!** _

The Zealot turned to Zyke and grinned wickedly.

"Oh, back for more?" The Arcadimaarian laughed. "I could've sworn that I killed you."

"You did," Zyke growled, and it  _was_  a growl, his voice thick with menace.

Tears in his eyes, Quarir ran up the passage, carrying Nuri with him. Silently, aware that Nalore was already grieving for his friend, Charlie hefted Dasther up and followed him, dragging the man over gravel. Knowing that he'd better face the outside world with a weapon, Charlie grabbed an odd looking, silver-cased rifle from the floor and balanced it precariously over his shoulder.

Debris fell like rain, dust swirling through the tunnels. The mortars had become a rhythmic heartbeat of artillery fire.

"You're quite the freak," the Zealot taunted Zyke, flexing his fingers, light crackling between his open palms.

"Yeah I've heard that a l-lot," Zyke stuttered, "but  _but_  as I've always  _always said_ _ **said…**_ "

His skin tore, his clothes shredded, his arms lengthened. Zyke changed. Fingers became flesh rending claws, his legs rippled with muscles and his face twisted suddenly, horribly, into a truly nightmarish fang-lined maw.

" _ **I'm a POWERFUL ONE..."**_

With a cry of pure, demonic rage, the Rot, in what was to be his last incarnation, hurled himself at the Zealot.


	32. Chapter 32

**Malign Contingency**

"Barney's just outside the Nexus compound," Charlie said. "I heard it on the radio. Kat and Werner and Zosia and Ruth and everyone else trying to set up a new frontline behind his group. I don't know how well—"

Charlie trailed to a halt, as if Quarir's hush had interrupted him.

"It'll all be all right, you know," the young rebel said quietly.

Quarir sighed. "How can it be all right, Charlie? Dmitri, Pyotr, Nuri, Zyke... everyone's just… just…" Quarir went silent.

"Nuri will be fine," Charlie said. He nodded towards her. She was propped up behind a large peak of rubble. Gunfire, City 17's classic tune, rang around them unceasingly and the mortars provided background.

The Resistance had overcome the CPs, not that Quarir seemed to care. Vanguard now had a perimeter of semi-safety, a line where the wounded could be treated and the weary could buy some rest. Dasther was strewn across some stretcher but only the most professional medic could treat him without frowning.

"I'd kind of like to know," Charlie began, "what's going on. That guy wasn't Combine. At least," the Resistance member copped out of his confrontational tone, "I don't think so."

"You know what, Charlie?" Quarir looked at him. "I don't care anymore. The guy was a Zealot, he's an Arcadimaarian. The Arcadimaarians are the Domarian Legion's sworn enemies. And I'm a Domarian, not a human. Zyke and Yuza are Domarians too, but Zyke's part of a sub-species that we tend to treat in a shitty way. I'm here because my 'boss' sent me here as an alternative to being executed."

"Ah. That explains this, then."

"That's my plasma rifle!"

"Yeah, I picked it up. You dropped it." Charlie handed the weapon back. "I knew you were an alien or something man. I mean, Nuri didn't go for me. That can't be natural."

"Uh."

"I mean, you three didn't look alien," Charlie conceded, "although Zyke's shape shifting… thing… was a hint. You all acted weird."

"Charlie, Nuri isn't..."

"What?"

"Never mind." Quarir wiped a hand across his eyes. "You seem to be taking it all in your stride."

"Hey, I grew up hearing about what Earth used to be like, so I've lived with aliens since I can remember. Combine control has been all I've known. At least you guys look like people." Charlie sat down. "I mean, not that that's the only thing that matters. Thanks. You know. For the help. 'Cos this ain't your war, or anything."

"It is, Charlie. I think it always was."

" _A lovely sentiment, Nalore."_

Quarir stood bolt upright.

" _The Resistance member known as Barney Calhoun is two kilometres to the northeast,"_  Maintonon told him. " _ **You**_   _must head three kilometres to the west."_

"Yes," said Pyotr, "the Uclasion Artefact, as ever, speaks in terms of pure logic."

Quarir and Charlie goggled. " _Pyotr?"_

"No, wait," Quarir shook his head, "this is Sam."

"Incorrect, Quarir Nalore. I  _am_  the Vortigaunt you know as Pyotr. We cannot be harmed through psionic means," the 'Gaunt intoned. "Any form of telepathic attack is twisted throughout the Vortessence. A thousand minds take the burden. A mere Arcadimaarian could never breach the wall of our spirit. Amateur."

The two men spoke at once. "What do you mean, Ulcasion Artefact?" Charlie began.

"So where's the Zealot?" demanded Quarir.

"The Uclasion Artefact is the entity that rules Quarir Nalore's people, Charlie Harris." Pyotr cocked his head. "And the most-despised Zealot is currently battling the Combine Elites with every sign of enjoyment."

"Pyotr," Quarir walked up to the Vort and stared him in his primary eye. "Don't take this personally, but I need to know. I need to know what you know. I don't want any of these mysteries, I don't want any mention of secrets, I don't want some bastard in a blue suit to pop up and I want to know if that double-bastard Maintonon has—"

"Quarir Nalore, you must understand that there are some things that no mind should have to take alone. Some things that no one must ever learn of. Our greatest philosopher put it thus: ' _cy-glang talar teth'luar'_."

"And I don't want any damn philosophy quotes…!"

"Quarir Nalore, time is of the essence. Trust in our nature and trust in the strategies of the Artefact. We must head in the opposite direction to that of Barney Calhoun's forces and congregate at the opposite corner of the Nexus compound. I shall carry Nuri Dekker."

Quarir felt Maintonon's presence return. " _You would do well to listen to the Vortigaunts, Nalore."_

Charlie blinked. "What the hell is happening now?"

" _And kindly tell that Earth-dweller to be silent."_

Atop Vanguard's smoking rooftop, a blue-suited bastard watched them leave.

* * *

Forty picked the nearest Elite up with one hand, his way of getting their attention. "Confirm what happened here!"

The Elite acted as if he wasn't being suspended two feet from the ground. "An unidentified entity attacked our squadron during our attempted raid…"

 _That is correct,_  said Forty's Advisor,  _it was an Arcadimaarian. His support ship dares to occupy Union space. It is less than one light-year from this planet._

"This entity bested an entire squadron of Elites," Forty said thoughtfully.

_And thus you must kill him, Project Forty. Dispatch the Arcadimaarian before Freeman arrives. The Domarian is of secondary import!_

* * *

"I think I get what's going on," Charlie said excitedly, "you're trying to lure them away from Calhoun! It's a double bluff! Make them think that Barney is the decoy when really  _we're_  the decoy and he's the real attack…"

" _I_  don't get what's going on," Quarir muttered. "Zyke is dead, and you're all acting like it's one big party."

"Many are dead, Quarir Nalore," Pyotr croaked. "Do not belittle them with untimely grief. The Freeman will return within the hour. Once our task is done, the Freeman shall complete his own."

"You know something, don't you?" Quarir shoved an angry finger where the Vortigaunt's nose would've been. "You've always known something!"

"Freeman's coming back?" Charlie looked ecstatic. "How do you know?"

Quarir frowned. "Just tell us, Pyotr…"

"If you things would just die, it'd make my job far easier."

Quarir felt a blow on the back of his neck, and he sank to the ground.

"It would be less enjoyable," the Zealot admitted, adjusting his gauntlet, "that much is true, but it would be over so much quicker..."

"Ah," Pyotr nodded. "The non-being returns, as predicted."

"Shut up, abomination. I shall deal with you later, even if I have to pull your limbs off one by one. I did, after all, find close combat with the freak quite exhilarating. Fortunately this human isn't shielded like yourself."

Charlie flew backward into the wall.

The Zealot bent down and grabbed the dazed Quarir by the throat. "At last," the Arcadimaarian breathed, raising a fist that was burning with the heat of a sun, "it ends now, primate. You are my prize. I am perfection, and you are nothing to me…"

A hand, encased in white armour, grabbed the Arcadimaarian's wrist.

"You," Forty hissed, "are exactly what I have been searching for."

* * *

"What  _is_  it?" Nesthilius stared at the display. Their scanners hadn't picked  _that_  up in the preliminary examination!

One of his generals waved a hand helplessly. "Some kind of Synth, we think."

"Have the Zealot kill it! We can't afford to stay in orbit any longer!"

This was true. The Arcadimaarians expressed little interest in their foes but their oracular methods had divined an approaching threat, no doubt some of the monstrously huge, vacuum-dwelling Synth that had claimed so many spacecraft. They might have to leave at a moment's notice.

The general watched events unfold, and he swallowed. "The Combine unit appears to be highly resilient, lord… perhaps if we dispatched the Domarian fir—"

"Shut up and do as I say!"

* * *

Quarir was tossed aside. He hit a building, sliding down in an ungraceful heap of pained limbs. The Zealot was saving him for later…

An amplifier gauntlet, the fingers fiery with psionic projections, slashed across Forty's faceplate. This had no effect. Undaunted, the Zealot let loose a horrific combination of blows, striking his attacker repeatedly.

Apparently unharmed, Forty lazily drew his fist back and punched the Arcadimaarian so hard that he bounced off the ground.

Nuri groaned and stirred. Pyotr, contriving to act both hurriedly and stealthily, helped Nuri to her feet. "It appears that the Fortieth shares the durability of his Synth relatives. Make haste, Nuri Dekker. Regardless of the identity of this conflict's victor, they will come after us."

She could only nod. While Xenians and the servants of the Combine shrugged off telepathic intrusion, she couldn't. Her head throbbed, and she felt both physically and emotionally fatigued.

With surprising agility for one wearing so many robes and so much armour, the Zealot regained his footing. He drew a hand back and hurled an energy bolt at the Combine's commando. Forty barely flinched.

Supporting the human, Pyotr led Nuri towards the rubble where Quarir lay. He did not respond to gentle prodding, so Nuri actively kicked the prone Domarian in her frustration.

With a grunt of exertion, the Arc smashed his lightning-edged palm into the chitinous breastplate. It cracked, and a strangely mournful sound erupted from the demi-Synth.

"Hah!" The Arcadimaarian sneered, "Do you see? Nothing can hope to face m—"

Forty hit him in the face. "Your desire to engage in conversation is not mutual."

The Zealot's lip was split, his nose pulped, his face cracked like china. Squinting in concentration, the assassin brought light creeping across his shattered visage and when it faded, he was whole again.

"Uh, this might not be as one-sided as we thought," Nuri swallowed. She slapped Quarir's cheek repeatedly, urgently trying to revive him.

The Zealot had poise and finesse while Forty was distinctly mechanical, his joints clicking and scraping as he parried and riposted. Yet their fight gave the impression that the Arcadimaarian was inefficient. Despite moving slower, the Benefited human managed to block every blow and still find time to respond.

Forty managed to catch the Arc's fist. Twisting it cruelly, the Elite hurled the Zealot over his shoulder. Before they'd even hit the ground, Forty's hand had removed his pulse cannon from his back and was blazing at the plummeting enemy with both barrels. The vast ammunition chains trailing from the weapon clicked through at speed, a ballistic wall of obliteration roaring away from Forty.

The Zealot managed to land on his feet. Hands raised protectively, the Arc prepared to deflect the volley.

"If Quarir Nalore does not awaken," said Pyotr, "we will have to carry him."

Something exploded with a harsh snap. The Vortigaunt looked at the battle, and saw that the Elite's pulse weapon had been broken in half. The Zealot's psychic projectiles had finally found their mark.

Expending so much latent psionic energy that even Pyotr felt its effects, the Zealot formed both hands into a cup and smote Forty with a blinding energy projectile, its reverberations bouncing around half the city.

Forty staggered. His shoulder was smoking and a tiny crack had appeared in his lone viewing lens.

"And so it ends!"

The Zealot leapt, gauntlets alight.

"I AM PERFECTI—!"

But Forty caught him, cutting him short, picking him out of the air.

Eye aglow, the Elite placed his hands on either side of his adversary's head... and squeezed, holding him at arm's length.

The Zealot shrieked in agony, futilely alternating between trying to break the Synth's hold and pelting its head with psionic blasts.

There were cracking noises, and the cries reached an animalistic pitch.

Nuri felt her insides lurch. Blood was already flowing from between Forty's fingers.

With a twisted, inhuman cry of triumph, Forty caved in his adversary's head with a wet, blubbery pop.

Fumes rising from his torso section, Forty's shoulders heaved in a rhythm that had little to do with his breathing. Hands awash in gore, the Elite turned.

"You," Forty breathed. "You are all that remain!"

He took a step forward—

—and vanished, swallowed by a beam of light that seemed to leap from the ground and into the sky.

Quarir sat up groggily. "Tha' was a matter tran'ferer," he slurred sleepily.

Nuri relaxed on seeing he was awake. "You mean... you mean like a teleporter?"

"Indeed," Pyotr looked to the heavens. "However it appears that Arcadimaarian acquisition devices lack the accuracy of Combine teleporters."

"Or someone made them miss," Nuri said darkly.

Charlie, mind burning with questions and psychic collateral, screamed at them from the pile of debris he had been thrown atop of. They couldn't hear him. There was too much noise.

A Strider, its arrival long overdue, smashed a wall aside. Its distortion cannon consumed the three survivors in reality-warping oblivion.

* * *

_Project Forty…_

Forty's head snapped upward, his lone eye glowing a deep red.

"Sir?"

_You are to be decommissioned._

"But why? I am the greatest combatant humanity could ever produce!"

 _That much is true. But you are volatile,_ the Advisor continued.  _Uncontrollable. Dismissive of instruction._

"I have achieved so much!" Forty was furious at his masters, even as he worshipped everything they stood for. "And I can do so much more! I shall tear this ship apart from the inside! Kill everything within!"

_You intend to demolish this craft alone? Eliminate all two-thousand personnel onboard?_

"You know I can do it!"

_Yes. We believe you have a great enough capacity for violence. Very well, we accept your proposal._

"Anything for the greater glory of the Universal Union." Forty bowed.

_We will take the death of the ACS Glorious as proof of your willingness to serve. Go forth for the betterment of us all._

The guards watched as the teleporter bay doors opened. They were impenetrable. Two-inch platanicrete with a magnetic seal that could resist a megaton of pressure. But they'd opened nonetheless.

Forty stood in the doorway. He stomped forwards, and his hands grasped the necks of the closest soldiers. He twisted them simultaneously, hurling their broken corpses aside in a perfectly symmetrical double murder.

The officer knew, as the fusion pulses of his men's rifles splashed harmlessly off the monstrosity's armoured hide, that he was already dead.

Forty ran towards them, revelling in doing what he was made to do.

* * *

"We can't stop it!"

The tactics analyser, for the first time in its long service, had been set to display the interior of the ship.

"It breaks through everything in its path…" the general stared, disbelievingly, at the delicate crystal display. Every squadron, every unit, fell before the Combine killing machine they'd mistakenly beamed aboard.

"Send the Guardians," Nesthilius ordered, but his general's cowardice was contagious. "They are machines! They will resist it, it is unarmed—"

"We did! It punched through their torsos and crushed their hearts! Nothing damages it! It cannot be stopped!"

Nesthilius looked to the command balcony. The usually quiet tier was a hive of panicking machinists. "Open the airlocks," he bellowed, "disconnect portions of the ship. I don't care about losses, just keep it away from here!"

"The controls aren't responding, lord! Everything's dead!"

" _And soon, you will be."_

The grand oracular, the vast screen that could cover the observation window on command, flared into life. On it, the distinctive avatar of the Traitor Mainframe glowed, looking down on them all, its eye at the centre of a swirling vortex of angular shapes.

" _I have crippled your systems,"_ Maintonon informed them. " _The Guardians will ignore further commands, the defence fields will remain inactive and your engines will not start."_

"How can you…?"

" _You made the mistake of angering three factions. And I do not count Earth among them. The Combine detected your transmission but its obsession with your presence allowed my signal to utilise their own transmitters without impediment._

" _I drowned your scanners with ghosts. There is no impending Combine threat, but your haste to retreat brought one aboard. And now you will die at the hands of their finest invention."_

Nesthilius stared. People screamed, controls flashed golden... the Sunspear was in chaos. On the tactics analyzer, the Combine commando's blip moved at a constant speed, pausing only to obliterate those that came too close.

" _The Combine sees you as a great threat. You followed my signal in your arrogance, in your blind desire to impede me. It has been your undoing. I and my ally have had to do surprisingly little._ _ **You,**_ _gentlemen, were my malign contingency."_

Maintonon terminated the connection.

Behind Nesthilius's fear-stricken form, the main blast door began to buckle under a sustained assault.

In front of it, a man adjusted his tie, smiled, and walked into nothingness.


	33. Chapter 33

**Epilogue**

Quarir Nalore was back in his apartment.

His first thought was:  _I'm dead._

His second was:  _but I always hated that wallpaper, so this can't be heaven. But my hot tub is still there, so it can't be hell._

It was a simulation.

" _Correct, Nalore."_

Quarir nodded. He'd expected as much. "Rescued me at the last second, did you?"

" _I suppose I did."_

"And the others? What about them?"

" _They will be fine, Nalore."_

"I don't believe you! You've screwed with me for the last time! You don't tell me anything!"

" _Then I shall explain. Do not fear for the future. Everything has gone to plan."_

"Like hell it has!"

" _This was all arranged, Nalore. You all behaved as I predicted."_

"Suuuure we did—"

" _I even knew you would say that, Nalore. People assume that humans are inherently unpredictable. But if you have full knowledge of their personalities and total control of outside stimuli then their actions become exquisitely easy to forecast."_

Quarir didn't say anything else, just in case the Supercomputer was prepared to say he'd predicted that, too.

" _This operation was a complete success. Congratulations are in order."_

He'd had enough. "I don't know what the operation was, you bastard! You kept us in the dark all along!"

" _Purely for reasons of security. Had you known what my intentions were, the Combine could have forced the information from you— and they have methods that make mere torture seem ethical. If they realised your purpose on Earth, it would have undone everything you set out to achieve."_

"Even though I don't know what I've achieved!"

" _Your nanotech failed at Nova Prospekt not because of overuse but because I disabled it, Nalore."_

"What? Why?"

" _When Worborne uploaded your details to the Overwatch archive, he included an entry that described your augmentations. Thus the Combine currently believe our technological standard to be far less advanced than they had previously estimated merely because they examined a Domarian with deactivated bionics. I reactivated them soon after, of course, otherwise you would have been far too fragile. Their return had little to do with Zichekoam's bullet-removing surgeries."_

"Hmm…"

" _In addition, the Elites confiscated the samples Worborne took from your body. The Combine have undoubtedly examined them extensively."_

"And?" said Quarir, who had learnt to expect the unexpected.

" _They will consider you to be a normal human, Nalore."_

"But I'm a serumite!"

" _Not any more, Nalore. Before I instructed your nanodrones to dismantle your bionics, I arranged for them to begin undoing that which your serum jab had achieved. Not enough to make you a 'basic' human, that would be suspicious. You are still subtly different to one of Earth's natives. But it was enough to make the Combine believe that, ultimately, a Domarian is nothing more than human. So similar as to be identical in any practical sense."_

"Why'd you do that?"

" _Because now they no longer foresee any great benefit in invading Legion space. It would be a great battle, a battle I would certainly lose, but I would take_ _ **millions**_   _of them with me... for little gain._

" _They have humans right here on Earth and they do not consider it viable to risk so much to integrate a civilisation that they see as identical to this world's. Excepting a few Uclasion artefacts, such as, of course, myself."_

"But what about Zyke and Yuza?"

" _Zichekoam in particular was an important plant: the Combine would have realised that the Rot is unpredictable and impractical to duplicate. Let alone the problems caused by its contagious nature. But ultimately Zyke and Yuza were backups that were not deployed."_

"Not deployed? Zyke  _died_  for you, you—"

" _Zyke died for himself. He had come to terms with the destructive nature of his condition. He has redeemed his past crimes with his heroic sacrifice. He is at peace."_

"His condition? I knew he was a Rot..."

" _And a powerful one. But in, shall we say, his past life, he abused his genetic nature. He set his own destruction in motion with his pursuit of physical perfection, causing his own body to decay rapidly, at least by normal Rot standards, and thus he had nothing to lose. He wanted to make amends."_

"He never told me."

" _He has a right to some privacy, as we all do. You performed admirably, but Zyke was a perfect support officer, and Yuza was successful in her mission. She has been removed from Earth through separate means."_

Quarir thought this all sounded a little too pat. "But the Combine still see us a threat, surely? We've got a lot of planets to our name…"

" _The Combine see you as a mediocre primate raised to greater heights by a hostile entity. The same entity that propelled Gordon Freeman to a level of competence that made him a true nemesis of the Union."_

"Yeah, right," said Quarir, who didn't like the idea of slugs considering him primitive, "but we've still got this empire of ours."

" _We are positively minute compared to the Combine. True, they may someday consider us a viable target, but they now have a far more interesting goal."_

"What?"

" _You yourself came surprisingly close to identifying my plan, Nalore. Directly after your briefing, if you recall, you voiced the opinion that I must be planning to play the Arcadimaarians against the Combine."_

Quarir nodded. "I remember, yeah…"

" _But, at the time, you underestimated the Combine. They are more powerful than the Arcadimaarians. More powerful than all our other enemies combined, Nalore. They have quite an appropriate name."_

"What's that got to do with getting them at each other's throats?"

" _I do not want them at war. Wars are fleeting, petty things to those civilisations, to be started and stopped whenever it becomes useful to do so. No, I don't want them clashing over territory. Single planets mean little to them. I want them fighting for their very survival. I want the Combine to pursue the Arcadimaarians at all cost."_

"Why would they do that?"

" _Because of the Arcadimaarian presence. Their idiocy has proven our salvation. The Arcadimaarinans sent a Zealot to apprehend you instead of a mere operative, and oversaw his operation with a Sunspear warship. The Combine knew this ship was nearby. It indulged in blatant reconnaissance and resupplied the Zealot when necessary. While the Combine sees you as a fortuitous primitive, they see the Arcadimaarians as an advanced civilisation that is as dangerous as Freeman himself. And, like Freeman, they see acquisition of the Arcadimaarians as a great prize."_

Quarir realised what Maintonon had done.

" _A species combining telepathy with advanced technology. A species they will now target religiously, with every success, neglecting their fringe territories."_ Maintonon laughed. A noise Quarir had never heard before, and had no desire to hear again. " _I have undone all my debts, Nalore._

" _I aided a certain suited gentleman, you may have met him, by using you and Zichekoam's rebels to spread the Combine thin enough to guarantee Freeman's success. In return this entity merely lingered nearby, ensuring the Combine assumed you were_ _ **his**_   _pawn, rather than a representative of your entire species. The Arcadimaarians, however, are now the Combine's prime target. The Arcadimaarians cannot delay their defeat forever... but for a time both will forget us. Their attentions will be lifted from both Earth and Ucelsia."_

"Good grief," said Quarir. "That's really, well… clever…"

" _It is in my very nature to be malleable. My every activity has a backup in reserve. Even your own actions, actions you considered to be against my orders, were planned for."_

Maintonon's avatar grew as big as a world.

" _I_ _ **am**_   _contingency."_

* * *

Voices. Charlie could hear voices.

Their voices? Perhaps, like him, they'd survived!

"Negative Q7, the area is clear."

No. The voice was flat, distorted by static. The Elites had caught up with him.

Charlie stood up, every bone aching, every inch of his skin bruised or scraped. He looked down from his throne of smoking debris. Three Elites, standing in the crater. They were no doubt investigating reports of disturbances, energy signatures that, for once, weren't down to Combine weaponry. Walking amongst the ash of his friends. If distortion cannons even left that.

They hadn't seen him, but Charlie saw something else. The Elites were probably searching for it themselves.

The Mercenary rifle. The plasma weapon, dulled by dust, was half buried in rubble barely three metres from him. It had outlived two masters; the bounty hunter that had dogged Yuza during two missions; and Quarir Nalore, the Domarian that had served his sentence on Earth.

What did he have to lose?

"Repeat Q7, the Nexus compound is clear on this  _aargh!_ "

Despite Quarir's past claims, the rifle worked as he expected it to. Its recoil was quite weak but its glowing plasma bolts punched through the helmet effortlessly. He didn't hesitate in eliminating the Elite's colleagues. He had the advantage of surprise, and they did not have time to bring their pulse rifles to bear. Charlie realised just how well technology could compensate for a lack of skill.

He skidded down the rubble mounds that filled the street. The Elites' white uniforms were dotted with charred black perforations and they had nothing of use. Pulse rifles? Well, he had a gun with limitless ammunition: it could recharge in what, ten seconds? Once he'd have hoarded them, but now, what was the point?

"… _kk-kk_ …kk come in! Anyone?"

Charlie started. One of the Elites' radios, a wiry mess that was spilling from a split helmet, was purveying a man's worried tones.

 _But the Resistance had been jacking Combine frequencies for years,_ he thought,  _hadn't they, I mean, we?_

Another static-filled interjection. "Anyone? Everyone report in! We're—" More static— "now!"

Gingerly, Charlie reached for the device, trying to ignore the fact it was slick with blood. "Hello?" he said, trying not to hold it too close to his face.

"Hey!" There was static. "We need to know what's happening!"

The signal appeared clearer. Apparently, the way Charlie was squeezing the components was helping matters, forcing contacts into the right places. "What's happening?" Charlie blinked.

Like Charlie Harris, the rebel on the other end of the radio was not a professional, military comm officer. He swore repeatedly, most of it drowned by convenient interference. "—ck it! We're asking  _you,_ man! We're the Prospectors!"

The Nova Prospekt survivors were coming back and wanted news. Reinforcements wanting a report. Charlie thought of Dmitri, of Carns's squad, of Quarir and Nuri and Pyotr…

"Well? You know anything?"

And then he thought of apathy. Of dissent. Of how the sub-species divide in Domarian culture manifested itself in hostility that had nearly claimed Zyke and Yuza, threatening their mission. And then he thought of Earth, and humanity's fate. Of morale and hope. He thought of unity.

"It's going great," he whispered.

"What?"

"We're winning!" he said more firmly. "We ambushed an Elite squadron, got all of them! Couple of them looked special, too! We took down Mortar Synth and drove a Strider off! We outran Gunships. It's going great! Get everyone moving! We can rally!"

Behind him, the monolithic Combine wall shuddered. But it didn't advance on him, claiming further space... it opened. The outer compound was open. Yuza had done it…

"We've got the perimeter open, now it's just the Nexus wall blocking us!"

"Well," the radio garbled, "that's just what we need..."

Charlie remembered Pyotr's promise. "And Freeman's back! We heard from him!" That was a lie, but he'd already told several. But maybe Freeman  _was_ almost back by now. "Get people moving, get everyone listening, take up arms! Help Calhoun, get Dr. Vance back, we'll win!"

The world turned, and awaited the aftermath of an inevitable struggle. But, just for once, it might prove strengthening.

Behind him, on the roof of a crumbling apartment block, a man walked away and disappeared.

* * *

"Take me home," Quarir said flatly.

" _Was that a demand, Nalore?"_

"It damn well was!" Quarir snarled, "I've repaid my debt to society! I've been your puppet! Now take me home!"

" _You are redeemed in the Legion's eyes, Quarir Nalore. That much is true. Your debt is undone."_

"Then I don't need to be your slave!"

" _There are other dangers, Nalore. Other obstacles to overcome. You are still needed. I have one more task to ask of you."_

"Do it yourself! I don't care anymore!"

" _That,"_  Maintonon interrupted loudly, " _is an untruth. You do care, Quarir. You do not have to do this but the question, Nalore, is whether you want to."_

"I…" Quarir trailed to a halt. It was stupid, heroic, poetic, all the clichés he despised: but he did care, now. He doubted himself. He doubted his past. He doubted everything. He'd seen what the Combine could do. He'd seen what people could do to themselves, without alien civilisations battling on their home turf.

" _Then it's settled. Good luck._

_And well done."_

* * *

That sensation again. He despised it and yet, like so many things he hated, he was learning to understand it and tolerate it. He knew how phase shifting worked, so it was no wonder it made him feel odd.

He knew that Maintonon had the Domarian's best interests at heart, and so he was learning to accept—

 _No!_  he berated himself,  _don't think like that! You're just another pawn!_ _ **It**_   _doesn't care!_

His surroundings had undergone a huge change. For one thing there was snow. The ground was covered in its soft blanket and flakes fell in a calm, but constant, torrent.

Gentle hills contrasted oddly with jagged cliffs but it could have been any planet. There were plenty of Domarian ice worlds, but the majority had the irritating habit of having multiple climates. This might be the polar cap of a tropical planet, for example.

He didn't feel cold, and he realised why. He was wearing his pale suit and tie, the set he'd been wearing when Maintonon had first abducted him. It was a thermal set, very expensive, but he already missed his citizenry fatigues. He'd lived in them so long that he even missed their smell of blood and sweat and strife.

So, here he was. Alone again. No hints. Nothing. All because that cybernetic bastard thought running blind was their best bet.

He had his gun back, but didn't care. It was a high-calibre photonic, but he'd miss the dirty bark of Earth combustibles. But he wouldn't miss the death.

"You bastard," he sobbed. He didn't know whether he was talking to Maintonon or himself.

Something beeped. He rolled up his sleeve and there, where he'd once kept it, was his wrist computer.

"A lot of good it does me now!" he screamed at the sky. The compact comm device beeped again. It'd be Maintonon. There'd be some stupid reason why he was using it instead of transmitting straight to his brain.

He accepted the call. No ID number and an encrypted signal. Not surprising, few networks would recognise the computer's frequency. He had half a mind to cut it off right now—

"Quarir?"

He stared.

"I don't know if this is working…"

" _Nuri?!"_

"Yes!" She breathed in relief. "It's us! Pyotr and I heard you calling. Are you okay? We're behind this little hill with a grey rock on it!"

"I'm fine!" Quarir felt himself laughing. "Just stay right there!"

Snow swirled around sedately, and he approached the shivering duo at the nearest hill.

He wouldn't have been anywhere else for anything.

* * *

This was a place on no map, if you discounted Combine surveys, of course. It was a phase station of no fixed address, one of the Combine's finest inventions.

A Commander lived here: Advisors reported to him.

And yet he was just one among hundreds. He, if such a descriptor could even be applied, was in charge of one particular quadrant. The potential loss of a one-planet civilisation was of little interest to him, as the beloved Universal Union had a foothold in countless dimensions. Nevertheless, the wider implications were disquieting, and he had work to do.

He interfaced the Overwatch archives via his mind. He went straight into the threat monitoring system, selecting Individuals as opposed to Societies.

He added three points to the threat rating of the nameless entity that had undoubtedly steered Freeman. It was now as far into the red as it could go, a privilege usually reserved for star-eating transdimensional phenomena.

Freeman, too, received another sprinkling of points, and his personal indicator went a darker red.

Project Forty got four more points: he was an ally, but he was still present in the listings. Alliances shifted at all times.

Maintonon, and thus the Legion he represented, was passed over. But after some thought the Commander went back, and added one lone point to the Mainframe's profile, including a link that alluded to the slight possibility of collusion between it and another particular entity.

The Commander went into the Society archive, heading straight for the Arcadimaarian reference. They got six points, and a note mentioning their worth. Their profile would automatically be forwarded to the Benefactory for consideration. They could well be the next target for a multi-Citadel attack.

The Zealot entry, however, lost several points.

The Commander sat— there was little else he could do— and thought deeply.

He went back into the Individual category, and created a new reference:

_Quarir Nalore: Domarian Agent. Threat level: 7. Advice: …_

The Commander thought again.

… _observe. Application pending._

And, if only for a while, the universe was that much safer.


End file.
